


Morning Delight

by rlnerdgirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is a porn star, Derek is really good at sex, F/M, Howling Hales and The Silver Bullet are competing porn producers, M/M, Pornstar!Derek, Stiles is pretty good at friendship, Stiles works in a porn shop, awkward crushing, but not really anything else, but not relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rlnerdgirl/pseuds/rlnerdgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after graduating from UCLA Stiles finds himself working behind the counter of Morning Delight, an adult store in Burbank, with his best friend Scott. When Scott gets "found," Stiles finds himself alone behind the counter of Morning Delight when renown porn star Derek Hale wanders in one morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Candy Underwear: Messy, sticky, and generally not a good idea

Stiles isn’t sure what he thinks about Scott being “found.” It’s porn, albeit soft core porn, because Scott, for all his muscles and working around dildos and fake vaginas all day, isn’t about to strip his dick and plow some chick on film, so it’s weird. Like, really weird. Like, Stiles has known Scott since they were eight and he knows, on some level of consciousness, or unconsciousness, that Scott is an attractive guy, but porn? Also, it’s _porn_. It’s just weird, no matter how he looks at it.

 

On the other hand, he’s kind of happy and proud, the second of which is not an emotion he’s in any way ready or willing or equipped to deal with when in association to the newfound porn-star status of his best friend. The first, however, he can. They both have monster loans draining their bank accounts like some kind of government ordained money sucking vampires, so Scott getting some big(ger) bucks and being able to start paying those off is really nice.

 

For him.

 

Of course, Stiles is a little jealous too, because he also has big government money vampire loans as well and while Scott’s getting large stipends for near-stripping and near-sexing on film, Stiles is still stuck with his hourly paycheck behind the counter of Morning Delight selling everything from candy underwear to eighteen inch long, five inch thick, neon green glow in the dark dildos.

 

There’s no chime or bell when the door opens, though Stiles has been trying unsuccessfully for the past six months to convince his manager (the one and only other employee) that the door should activate a soft moan, not that Stiles needs an indication, after six months of sex shop work he is hyper vigilant of the door’s open-closed status. Stiles would press anyone to not become observant after unexpectedly stumbling across a pimply seventeen year old jerking it at the end of an aisle to a boobaliciously Photoshopped woman on the cover of something or other.

 

It’s seven a.m. Stiles has just opened up for the day, and while he used to complain about having to get up and open at seven in the freaking morning with the argument of, “Who the hell buys porn and sex-shit at seven in the morning,” he gets more business in the pre-noon hours of the day than he ever stood to reason. It’s not an early morning entrepreneur though; it’s Scott.

 

“Stiles! Oh my _God_ , Stiles.” Scott almost trips over his own feet as he half falls through the door and makes his way toward the squared counter space in the center of the store where Stiles is sitting, leaned back precariously in his wheeling chair that allows him to lord over his pervy kingdom in three-hundred-sixty degrees.

 

Gingerly and carefully Stiles returns to an ‘all wheels down’ position for maximum stability. Good thing too, because when Scott collapses against the counter it’s with a thrashing movement that would have startled Stiles just enough to give Murphy’s Law the edge it needed.

 

“ _Stiles_ ,” is a dramatic, theatrical sigh. “Oh my _God_ , Stiles.”

 

“Dude.” Seeing as Scott looks somewhere between melting and leaping over the counter to bear hug Stiles, he wheels back another six inches. “Yes? What’s up?”

 

A long sigh, that may or may not have a small noise that may or may not be able to be categorized as a moan, drains from Scott’s lips. Lips that are now curved into a dopey smile, and Stiles totally knows what this is. “Oh no.”

 

“I met the most amazing girl.”

 

“No.”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

Shaking his head, Stiles relents and walks his chair back toward Scott. “Please do not tell me she-”

 

“I met her last night.”

 

Stiles can forgive the interruption because he knows Scott has been up since noon yesterday when he left for the first day of filming for his first film. That, combined with the mental abilities of ‘crushing-Scott’ will actually force Stiles to forgive him a lot. If Scott had mind enough to just, like, punch him right now, he’d probably even forgive that. “Dude. Buddy. You work in porn. You are _not_ falling in love with your co-star. Much less a porn co-star.” He pauses. “I would say porn-star, but since that’s already a thing, it doesn’t really work, even ironically.”

 

“She is amazing.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah. You mentioned that.” This is a losing battle, Stiles knows because he’s attempted to fight it before, once or twice, and both those times Scott’s smile weren’t nearly as bright and voice nowhere near as warbling. After fourteen years, Stiles knows Scott well enough to tell the difference between a one and two coffee morning, much less a fling crush and a ‘run for the bunkers’ crush. Not that he’s ever actually seen the later.

 

Well, not until now.

 

“You wouldn’t even- You don’t even- I can’t even explain her.” Another soft sound follows the declaration and Stiles kind of wants to puke.

 

“I repeat: You work in porn. You are _not_ falling in love with your co-star. In fact, scratch that, I refuse to let you fall in love with anyone involved in porn.” As soon as he says it, he wishes he hadn’t.

 

Scott’s eyes go wide. “Yes. Yes, I do. I am. Stiles. _Stiles_. I love her.”

 

Taking a moment, Stiles pulls himself to the counter besides Scott and drops his head, gently smashing his forehead with a _thunk_.

 

“Stiles?”

 

A breath or two later Stiles lets his head fall to the side so he can look back at Scott. “I cannot believe you are working in porn. I should have known this would end badly. You make relationships with everybody. Every _thing_. You could barely do dissection in bio sophomore year because you named our frog George and gave him the back story of being in, like, frog marriage with Gretta, who’d escaped the labs and lived in the swamps waiting for him.”

 

The memory makes the intensity of Scott’s smile fade. “I hope she found someone else.”

 

Stiles launches himself from the counter so violently his chair reels back and he spins almost completely around. “Scott. That is _not_ the point. The point,” he says, twisting back around to find Scott staring at him, eyebrows raised ever so slightly, like Stiles is the weird one in their relationship. “The _point_ is that I should have seen this coming. We should have seen this coming. How did we not think of this?”

 

Elbows perched on the counter, Scott shrugs, but his smile is back full force. He’s lost. Officially and completely. “She works soft core too.”

 

“Yeah, no kidding, that’s what you do. How else would you have met?” Despite the fact Scott’s not paying attention, Stiles gives him an exasperated eye roll.

 

“No, like, exclusively. She’s, like, Stiles, she’s perfect.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah.” At this point Stiles is going to be stuck listening to this crap all day. Luckily, it’s only Scott’s first day of shooting, which means he actually really does he needs to go home, get some sleep, and now Stiles has something to bait the stick with. “As nice as it is to hear about…” he waves his hand around vaguely.

 

“Allison.”

 

“Allison. Yes. As wonderful as she sounds, you should get home and get some sleep. Make sure you’re all refreshed and ready for your next big take tonight. Also, money making, you know, rent and everything.” Stiles might feel a little bit like a pimp when he says that. The fact that Scott is now paying seventy percent of their rent doesn’t make him feel much better. His defense is that it wasn’t his idea, that Scott’s doing it completely voluntarily.

 

“Oh man. I can’t believe I get to work with her. She’s _flawless_.”

 

“Which is exactly why you need to go home, without crashing into someone or running over a homeless person, by the way, and get some sleep. Also,” Stiles spins in a lazy three-sixty, waving his arms around. “Isn’t it a little tacky for a porn star to be hanging out in a sex store?”

 

By the time he’s back to the beginning Scott is completely and one hundred percent checked out. With a huff, Stiles actually stands up, walks over, and slaps his hand down on Scott’s shoulder. He’s rewarded with a jolted jump. “Scott.”

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Seriously dude. Go home. Go to bed. You’ve been up for, like, a ridiculous number of hours having almost-sex. I’m happy you found the love of your life and all of that, but you need to go pass out and leave me alone, because if you stay here talking about Allison what’s-her-face, I might choke you with a dildo, and that will be awkward for everyone involved.”

 

Finally Scott’s smile gets displaced, turning into a quirked frown. “You wouldn’t choke me with a dildo.”

 

“Remember when you ‘pretend’ strangled me with a video game controller back in high school when I wouldn’t stop talking about Lydia?”

 

A frown solidifies as Scott reflects back on the memory. Somehow he looks guilty and petulant at the same time. “Oh. Yeah.”

 

“Yeah. So don’t think I’m above dildo-choking.”

 

“Right.” With a shiver, Scott pushes himself from the counter. “Want to order pizza tonight?”

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a diet to maintain or something?”

 

The shrug he gets in response makes Stiles want to do the dildo-choking thing. “Eh. I got the job the way I am, don’t see the need to change anything.”

 

Definitely wants to do the dildo-choking thing.

 

“Okay, pizza, my treat,” Scott continues, not waiting for a response. He must see the intent growing in Stiles’ eyes. “See you tonight. I’ll show you a picture of Allison.” He tosses over his shoulder on his way out.

 

“If it’s from one of her movies, I don’t think I want to see it!” Stiles shouts after him, but the door’s already closing so he just sighs, takes a step back, and deflates back into his chair. Whatever, Scott can go fall in stupid love with whatever porn star he wants to, as long as he doesn’t do what he always does and tell Stiles all about it. Stiles’ latest relationship has been with his hand. Luckily it seems to be working out. Six months steady now and no problems so far. Well, other than the fact that things are getting a little dull in the sack.

 

Maybe Stiles needs to actually buy something from this stupid store.

 

Is it a coincidence that he’s stopped having sex since he started working here? Maybe it’s a curse. He should have looked into that. How attractive sex shop employees are to the rest of the non-sex-shop-working people in the world. It could be a smell, or a vibe. Perhaps a vibe. A ‘I am surrounded by sex toys and read sex books for hundreds of hours before I started having weird dreams and complexes, and while I now read perfectly normal books at work, I still know about a billion times more sex theory than you and all your previous partners combined’ vibe. Mixed with a ‘note how I said theory’ vibe. The combination of which is, apparently, no sex.

 

Stiles is still mourning his lack of sex life and the potential role he had in its demise when he notices movement in his peripheral vision. And this is why he can’t have deep philosophical thoughts while at work, because people walk through the doors and he doesn’t notice them until they’re inside, and he either freaks out or finds them yanking it in a far corner.

 

Turning his attention from not so philosophical, but by no means not serious, thoughts, Stiles snatches his book from the counter, leans back in his chair, and subtly looks over the top of his book to watch the first customer of the day.

 

His breath catches.

 

Men with bodies like that do not go to sex shops. Stiles doesn’t even know what the guy’s face looks like, but his body. God must hate him, Stiles decides, because the back of his brain is still processing lingering thoughts about his current no-sexing situation.

 

Gritting his teeth he tries to focus on something else. Like why tall dark and muscular would be at a place like Morning Delight at seven thirty in the morning. Then his brain fizzles out because there are, reasonably, a ton of reasons. Toys for a girlfriend, something to spice up the sex life and add a little intrigue. Toys for himself, because sometimes he just wants to do it the right way on his own. Who knows? Stiles doesn’t, but he can hypothesize, and if a few triple-x thoughts go through his head involving Seven AM Hot and some choice Morning Delight products, nobody need be the wiser.

 

Stiles is diligently attempting to read his book and not fantasize about men whose faces he hasn’t even seen, but not getting much of anywhere, when there’s a low, throaty sound of someone clearing their throat awfully close. Glancing up from his book Stiles finds Seven AM Hot standing at the counter, all dark messy hair, striking features, thick eyebrows, maintained scruff, and intense green eyes.

 

Actually, he looks kind of familiar.

 

The neurons of his brain make the connection when Stiles is somewhere between sitting and standing.

  
Derek Hale.

 

Porn star extraordinaire, Derek Hale. Face and body plastered over many a video in the back, Derek Hale.

 

 _The_ Derek Hale.

 

Holy fuck shit sticks.

 

Suddenly Stiles is neither sitting nor standing. No, Stiles’ foot is biting painfully from where it’s caught on one of the wheels and he’s falling. It’s a short decent; he’s too distracted by Derek Fucks All The Girls And Boys Hale standing at the counter in front of him.

 

The ground is tile and extremely unforgiving, which Stiles learns for the umpteenth time when his elbow cracks down against it under him, followed by the side of his skull a second later. Pain lancing up his arm to his shoulder and down to his fingertips, Stiles takes a moment to curl around his arm and groan out a series of extremely adult words.

 

“Are you alright?” The voice is low and-

 

Oh good God, Derek My Cock Is Waiting For You To Suck It Hale is standing at the counter watching him fail at life like the failing failure he is. “Yeah.” It comes out as a gasped croak, which isn’t very manly or assuring and makes him want to die a little bit more. Cracking open his eyes, he catches sight of Derek, leaned ever so slightly over the counter, staring down at him. An eyebrow is quirked.

 

The motherfucker is amused. “You sure?”

 

Clearing his throat, Stiles winces as he pushes himself up. “Yes.” Much more solid this time around, a right adult there. He should follow it up with, ‘Thank you,’ but Derek I Fuck People For A Living And Am A Douche Hale still looks closer to laughing than genuinely concerned, so he doesn’t.

 

Once he’s completely up Derek leans back. There’s a bag containing a single candy thong on the counter. How… uninspired. Stiles glances from the undies to Derek Blows People For A Living Hale. “I feel I should warn you,” he pauses when a single thick eyebrow arches.

 

It says, ‘Really now. Tell me. What are you going to warn _me_ about?’

 

Now Stiles doesn’t want to say shit. Unfortunately he’s halfway to saying something already, so he goes ahead and continues, “Those things are never a good idea. It’s messy and sticky and definitely not in the good ways. Also, the candy tastes like shit and once it’s gone the remaining elastic bands are a bitch to deal with in every way imaginable and some you couldn’t conceive of. Seven-Eleven is three blocks down, they sell whipped cream. Still messy and sticky, but better.”

 

The eyebrow is still raised, but it’s saying something completely different now. In fact, whatever it’s saying, and Stiles isn’t sure he can translate it this time; it’s making him a little uncomfortable. He can’t tell if it’s good or bad and he’s expecting some kind of tacked on statement that will help him translate it, but instead Derek I Buy Candy Underwear At Seven AM Hale says, “It’s fine.”

 

Stiles shrugs. “Alright, but I warned you.”

 

Derek, just Derek now because Stiles’ brain is getting a little tired of taking an extra few seconds thinking the man’s name each time, nods. “I appreciate it. I’ll let your boss know you did your due diligence.”

 

“No, please, don’t.” Grabbing the bagged candy underwear, Stiles scans it and drops it in a black and silver Morning Delight bag. “I’m definitely not supposed to be pointing out product flaws, much less telling people they can have just as much fun and save a bunch of money by being a little creative.” When he looks back up Derek has that amused look on his face, a little more intense this time, like, obviously amused versus an amusement he’s trying to hide.

 

Grudgingly, Stiles admits to himself the look is good on the man.

 

“First hand experience?”

 

Stiles actually has to put his hands on the cash register with a grip that makes his knuckles go white to keep himself from keeling over when he realizes Derek I Fuck People For A Living Hale is asking about his sex life, with what sounds like genuine interest, and he’s wearing a wry, sexy smile as he does it. After a second of his brain rebooting, reminding him how to breathe, think, and speak, Stiles says, “I work in a sex store.” It’s a little more flat than he’d intended.

 

Flat seems to work though. Derek chuckles as he swipes his credit card. “That you do.”

 

Stiles almost blurts something embarrassing and obvious like, ‘And you work in porn, so why are you even here?’ which he’s actually really tempted by, because he’d follow it up by asking what kinds of things they have on porn sets, because it seems like candy underwear should be there. He refrains, pretty sure it will ruin the moment. Instead he hands over the bag with the candy underwear in it and says, “I kind of really hope you’re giving this is some unsuspecting roommate you have a grudge against,” which is the stupidest thing he’s ever said. Derek I Own Half Of Porn Hale does not have a fucking roommate; his family is like, one of the Porn Kings. A Porn Empire? Sure, that. The Hale Porn Empire.

 

Anyway. Derek Hale does not have a fucking roommate.

 

It doesn’t seem to matter though, because Derek’s giving him another wry grin. “Something like that,” he says, pulls the undies out of the Morning Delight bag, which he leaves on the counter. “What kind of whipped cream?”

 

Stiles’ brain might short circuit at that. “What?”

 

“Instead of the underwear. You have a brand you like?”

 

Stiles’ brain is most definitely short circuited now. How he manages to get out, “Doesn’t really matter, actually,” he has not the slightest.

 

The corresponding look is something like consideration. Approval? Stiles doesn’t even know. “Good to know.” Derek turns around and walks out.

 

Wait.

 

Wait.

 

What?

 

Breath whooshing out of his lungs, Stiles steps back until he feels his chair press against the backs of his legs, and collapses down. He has absolutely no clue what just happened. No. That’s not right. He has some idea of what happened, but what he thinks happened could not have happened, because to him… to him it seems like he and Derek I Make Millions Off Porn I Do Hale may have been flirting with each other, which is not possible because Derek Hale is a porn start with the abs of Captain America and bank account of Tony Stark.

 

Not that it matters either way, because Stiles is never going to see him again.

 

The thought makes him a little disappointed. 


	2. Porn Convention: an awkward pants party waiting to happen

“Stiles!”

 

Stiles jolts in his swivel chair, head snapping up from his book. With the exception of Scott, nobody walks into Morning Delight and announces their presence. While not everybody is ashamed to be wandering the aisles of a sex store at any given time, he’d have to say that, on average, most customers attempt to be as unobtrusive and forgettable as possible.

 

Then again, this, however, isn’t a customer. “Hey, Trent. Something wrong?”

 

Morning Delight is open for a twelve-hour day. Stiles has exclusively been working the Monday through Friday seven a.m. to three p.m. shift since Scott started porn and the employment roster went from three to two with Trent picking up the afternoon slack and the weekend shifts. While it means Stiles is surrounded by dildos and fake vaginas forty hours a week, it also means he’s working full time and getting a full time paycheck, which is nice.

 

Now, however, it’s noon on Wednesday and Trent is early.

 

Moseying up to the counter, Trent shrugs and shakes his head. “Nah. I just need to check on some stock things for this weekend.”

 

“This weekend?” New shipments come in on Monday. It’s part of Stiles’ morning routine, pushing back opening from seven to nine. He tries not to think about it too much because when he does he comes to the stark realization that he’s personally touched ninety percent of the product on the shelves around him. Not that it’s any worse than the fact that the six tier dildo castle display is a masterpiece from his own mind and hands.

 

In his defense, there are long stretches of time without customers and when Stiles hits a lull in his books it’s impossible for him to sit still.

 

What it all adds up to, though, is the fact that it is highly unusual for Trent to come in early on a Wednesday to do any kind of stock and or shipment check. By unusual Stiles means that it hasn’t happened in the six months he’s been working here.

 

Trent’s eyes go wide. “Oh shit, I forgot to tell you, didn’t I?”

 

“Um…” Stiles starts, having absolutely no clue what’s going on, which basically means, “I’m going to say yes.”

 

With another muttered curse, Trent says, “I need you to work Saturday and Sunday this weekend. Play Time starts on Friday at the Convention Center and Stacy set us up with our normal booth. It’s impossible to work it with just one person, so we’ve always had two. Not to mention having _you_ there will be an extra bonus.”

 

Closing his book, Stiles hesitantly grips the counter and pulls himself forward. “Okay, first of all, who is Stacy, and second of all, what the hell is Play Time?”

 

Trent stares at him like he thinks Stiles might be pulling a fast one. Seconds drag by and his annoyed disbelief fades into regular disbelief. “Stacy. My wife. Your other boss,” he explains, while eyeing Stiles like he’s not quite sure if he’s right in the head.

 

“I have another boss?”

 

“Yeah. Stacy. My wife.”

 

“Hey,” Stiles starts, holding up a hand. “I never met any Stacy. I was absolutely positive, until thirty seconds ago, that you owned this place and were the only other employee here. How did I not know about this?”

 

Trent shrugs, like he honest to God doesn’t know the answer either and is just as confused.

 

Rolling his eyes, Stiles waves his hand. “Alright. Alright. And Play Time?”

 

Another side glance. “The biggest adult erotica convention in Los Angeles?” Trent fills in, though it sounds like a countering question, like he’s not really sure either, or maybe the answer is just so obvious having to spell it out feels wrong. “I’m sure I talked to you about this before. Like, three weeks ago.”

 

“Are you sure you didn’t talk to _Scott_ about this?”

 

“That-” Trent starts, stops, shoulders slump, “…is entirely possible. But,” he continues with a shake, perking back up, “it doesn’t matter. We still need two people at the booth. The store will be closed for the weekend, but we’ll more than make it up. There’s a condition though.”

 

Stiles balks. “Okay, considering I’m not quite sure how I feel about going to a porn convention to begin with—and don’t look at me like that, I can have whatever reservations I want toward being surrounded by half naked people and strangers, which sounds like an entirely horrible combination—how can you put a _condition_ on my being there?”

 

“You’ll get time and a half.”

 

Actually, time and a half seems like a perfectly reasonable justification for facing the most probable likelihood of the complete and utter awkwardness of being surrounded by porn stars and sex toys amongst a sea of strangers. “The condition?” He asks, carefully.

 

“Dress code.”

 

Shoving himself away from the counter, Stiles shakes his head vehemently. “I’m not wearing some BDSM pleather shit from the back corner or one of the costumes.”

 

Trent rolls his eyes. “I’m not asking you to. I’m just asking you to not dress like you spend twenty hours a day with a headset strapped to your skull chatting with your WoW guild while you quest it up and skate the edge of scurvy by ingesting the occasional orange. I’m asking for a t-shirt a size smaller than you normally buy for yourself, or a tank, and no hoodie or hipster blazer. Something to show off the rock climbing you do.”

 

“Wait a minute.” Stiles actually needs a minute because he’s not sure whether he’s offended or flattered.

 

“If you wear the shirt I’ll buy your lunches during the convention.”

 

“That’s-”

 

“Nice ones. Sit down restaurant nice.”

 

“You’re joking.”

 

“I’m really not.”

 

“You know I rock climb?”

 

A wide grin splits across Trent’s face. “Saw the shoes in your back seat a few months ago. So, we have a deal?”

 

“I think you’re overestimating the lure of my assets, and I feel like I could possibly hold out for something more than three lunches for prostituting my sculpted climber arms, but yes, we have a deal.”

 

...

...

 

Not only was Scott originally asked by Trent to be his booth-buddy slash advertisement candy, Scott knew about Stacy. Stiles, for the most part, feels a little betrayed. It’s something he gets over relatively quickly when he finds out Scott’s going to be at Play Time as well, still as a piece of eye candy, but this one much more visible and much more ‘hands on,’ as quoted, anxiously, from Scott. To which Stiles’ response had been laughter and the flat out denial to promise not to take pictures if he found Scott in a horrifically awkward and compromising situation.

 

They’ve known each other for a long time and Stiles prides himself on being a good friend, but he’s not _that_ good.

 

Really, though, it’s only because he knows Scott would do the same, if given the chance, which is why Stiles is utterly thankful when, halfway through the last day of the convention, after he’s seen too many naked chiseled chests, flat stomachs, bouncing breasts, bare asses and barely covered crotches to get awkwardly hard anymore, Scott isn’t anywhere nearby when he runs into Derek Our Conversation Ended With Me Inquiring About Your Sexual Whipped Cream Preferences Hale.

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind there has been the awareness that Scott works for Howling Hales. The Howling Hales being the Hale family, now consisting of Derek and his older sister Laura, who inherited the company after a tragic holiday car accident that rode on the coattails of the company’s near bankruptcy—all knowledge healthily gained when Stiles’ love for his best friend, intrigue in his new job, and a once in a lifetime meeting with Derek Hale crashed together that may have induced a small bought of something close to obsession for a day and a half… or three.

 

So when the weekend starts out he’s aware, on a level, that Scott works for Howling Hales, which means that, in all likelihood other Howling Hales stars are going to be at the convention. Logically, if Howling Hales has its stars at a convention the owners are going to be there, particularly since those owners happen to be stars of many of their own productions.

 

All in all, come Friday, Stiles knows there is a chance of sighting Derek. Of course, there’s a difference between imagining it—and, really, he didn’t think on the possibility that hard, because Derek Fucking Hale must meet hundreds of people a day, many of which are far more familiar than the awkward guy at the sex shop—and reality.

 

Then there are no sightings, no run ins, not even when Stiles takes a break on Friday to wander over and see Scott taking pictures with women and men and being thoroughly groped in the process, and meet the majestic woman that is Allison, who was also taking pictures but had an air about her that severely minimized the groping. If he’s not mistaken, while gorgeous, the vibe had projected a message along the lines of: if you touch me in a way I deem inappropriate, I will grab you by your genitals and rip them off your body. Stiles laughs at Scott’s misfortune, finds himself in awe of Allison and liking her, despite her spiriting away his best friend, and caught in an awkward suspension between relief and disappointment when he returns to the Morning Delight booth without so much as having seen Derek.

 

Finally it’s Sunday, and because Trent never specified the content of the small shirts Stiles had to wear, he’s wearing [Ceiling Cthulhu](http://shirt.woot.com/offers/oh-hai-there-i-can-haz-ur-planet), because ceiling cat will never not be amusing and Cthulhu is generally accepted as awesome. Mainly, though, it’s because of the way Trent starees at him when he shows up at Morning Delight in the morning to help load up the jeep and carpool to the Convention Center. Trent doesn’t get the joke, but from the way his features change when he looks from the shirt to Stiles’ face he gets that there _is_ a joke to be gotten. All he says though is, “You’re a nerd and that is not what I had been hoping for.”

 

“You have to be specific with your wording, Trent,” is Stiles’ response. They argued about his [Kraken Bathtime](http://shirt.woot.com/offers/kraken-bathtime) shirt on Friday, which ended with Stiles’ inevitable win. According to Trent, though, it didn’t really matter what was on his shirt at the end of the day, because they still sold more than the anticipated amount of product and Stiles had more hands touch him than he was strictly comfortable thinking about.

 

Apparently the uncomfortable tightness of the small t-shirt stretching across his back and around his arms was worth it.

 

So Sunday is Ceiling Cthulhu and by the time one o’clock finally crawls up Stiles is tired and irritable and doesn’t want anymore people demanding conversations about Morning Delight brand _anything_ while they reach across the tables and squeeze his arms. Yes, he has to admit, they are nice arms. He’s steadily climbing 12a’s now and consistently hanging semi-inverted do amazing things to one’s body, but still, they are _his_ arms, and he’d like to have them not groped anymore.

 

Slapping his hands down on the table during one of the few and far between lulls Stiles stands. “I’m going to lunch or I’m going to try to stab someone in the eye with a dildo and we’re going to get sued.”

 

Trent looks equal parts amused and confused. “I’m pretty sure just you would get sued.”

 

“I’ll scream, ‘Morning Delight has driven me insane, taste my Morning Delicious cock asshole.’”

 

The response is prompt. Trent pulls out his wallet and shells out thirty dollars. “Here.”

 

Stiles gives him the side eye. “I thought you said twenty was the sit down restaurant appropriate cap.”

 

“Yes, well, consider it a ten dollar dessert boost to reel in your insanity. Or a five cent tip from all the people who have copped a feel over the past two and a half days.” He’s full on grinning now.

 

There is a small grain of hate compressing in Stiles’ chest for his boss. If Play Time were going to last more than another six hours he’d be well on his way to a hate diamond. “You’re a horrible person. I’m pretty sure this is employment abuse of some kind.”

 

“But not positive. So, until you are, why don’t you take some time to recoup, relax, and eat. I can hold down the fort for awhile.”

 

Stiles snatches at the bills Trent holds out. “I am going to be horribly lazy on Monday. I might give something to a customer for free,” he threatens once the bills are safely shoved into his pocket.

 

“Good thing I’ve been keeping up on inventory this weekend.”

 

Mustering up the best evil eye he can, Stiles shoulders the worn red hoodie slung over the back of his chair and backs out of the booth, zipping it up almost all the way. “I’m taking an hour.”

 

“Go. Take an hour. Let your homicidal rage reduce to a simmer.”

 

There are plenty of restaurants around the Convention Center, but Stiles already knows he’s headed to Quiznos to grab a sandwich and walk around until the unsettling restless itching in his legs wears off and the ghostly touches of other people fade from his arms. Of course, his plans hinge on him being able to get out of the Convention Center, which is where things go awry.

 

He uses one of the less popular entrance-exits to cut away from the half pervy, half half-naked crowd that gives him the added bonus of an empty bathroom to stop by on his way. The trip to the restroom itself is uneventful, exiting is a whole different matter because instead of walking out the door, it swings inward just as he’s reaching out for it, so quickly he nearly gets bludgeoned in the face with enough force to at least knock him on his ass, if not leave him bleeding and concussed.

 

Not even noticing the innocent, Stiles, who he nearly rendered bloody and head wounded, the man rushes in, at which point a collision actually happens.

 

Stiles first recognizes hot and hard. Hot body, temperature wise that is, and hard muscle. The next is that said body is warm because he is plastered against it, which quickly leads to the realization that the muscled chest under his hands isn’t contained in some kind of shirt or fabric material. All of those connections flicker through his mind in the quarter second of connection he actually has with the body before bouncing off and stumbling backward, hand coming up to his nose where it smashed into a shoulder or a neck or a chin.

 

“Oh my God. Look where you’re _going_ ,” he’s saying, previous irritations flaring white hot now that he has a reason and a person to unleash them on. There’s no response, so Stiles blinks rapidly, floaters in his vision settling slowly, and focuses on the idiot who runs into restrooms, who is none other than the one and only Derek Hale. “Oh,” is Stiles’ eloquent response to that information.

 

Derek I Smash Through Restroom Doors Hale just stares, eyes dancing over Stiles’ face and coming to land on where he’s still rubbing his nose. “You alright?”

 

“Yes.” Stiles gives his nose one last check, though it’s clearly not broken and perfectly fine except for a lingering ach that is soft enough to mean there’s no danger of bruising, before letting his hand fall.

 

An awkwardly long moment passes during which Derek’s lips curl into a smile. “Whipped Cream,” he announces, smile progressively widening.

 

Stiles instantly flushes. “Um. What?” does not quite come out as a squawk, but it’s a near thing.

 

Taking a step forward, Derek closes in on him, which is far more intimidating and hot when there is no two and a half foot wide counter, a cash register, and a bag of candy underwear separating them. “The sex shop guy, who sold me the underwear, but you prefer whipped cream instead,” Derek explains, as though he genuinely thinks Stiles could have possibly actually forgotten the incident.

 

Stiles takes an instinctive step back just to find Derek swelling forward, picking up the ground he gives up, his green eyes sharp and bright, far too intelligent and mischievous for anyone’s good, much less Stiles’. “Ah. Yes. That… would be me. And you’re Derek Hale.” He brain feels stunted and slow. Typically he is so much more on top of his game, on top of everything happening around him, but it’s as though he’s a fly that glanced a sticky strip, and even though he’s only got one wing stuck on the very edge, no amount of flailing is helping him get loose.

 

In fact, it’s just making it worse. As proven by another series of quick step-back-step-forwards that follow.

 

The smile has teeth now, and Stiles thinks it could very easily be predatory and downright scary, but instead it kind of makes him want to turn into a puddle and do whatever Derek wants him to. It’s frightening, because Stiles has rarely felt that way and he hates this impulsive hormonal feeling that makes him feel like he’s not in control. He takes another step back, is parried by Derek who’s taking a breath to say something and then-

 

There’s a noise out in the hall, a voice calling out, though it’s too muffled by distance and the door to actually make out the words. Nonetheless, Derek’s reaction is immediate. Taking another step forward he presses tight up into Stiles’ space, until he is once again a hot hard press against Stiles’ front, puts his hands on Stiles’ shoulder, and then pushes him back into an open stall, turning them around at the last minute so he can reach out to grab the door and close it after them.

 

It’s been ages since Stiles was last this phenomenally close to another person. How he’s is not sporting the most obvious and raging boner of his life right now, he’s not quite sure, but it might have something to do with the sheer amount of confusion, anxiety, and denial of this obvious unreality he’s experiencing at the moment.

 

Long seconds tick by and they stand, close to each other. Awkwardly, horribly close. Derek doesn’t let him go.

 

“So… We’re in a bathroom stall.”

 

Derek makes a noise of affirmation in the back of his throat, lips curving into a smirk. “How observant,” comes out low and husky. If sex had a voice, Stiles is almost positive it would be the one he’s hearing right now.

 

The hands have slipped from his shoulders and now there’s a warm pressure at his hip and another loosely curled around his bicep and Stiles, while sometimes a little slow on the flirtatious uptake, would have to be a rock not to know where this is going. It’s written in Derek’s rough voice, the curve of his lips, the gleam in his eyes.

 

Of all the things Stiles imagined might happen to him when he moved to LA, being presented with the opportunity to have sex with a famous porn star in a bathroom stall at an adult erotica convention was absolutely not on it. In fact, Stiles didn’t even know it was an option of something to possibly be put on the list. The idea of having someone who looks like Derek merely interested in him sexually is mind blowing, because while Stiles knows he’s pretty goodlooking, he’s pretty sure he’s not porn star hot.

 

As with many things, Stiles has to ruin the moment with thinking and logic, because as much as he’s made fun of Scott for his ability to form attachments and bonds too quickly, there is no way Stiles can fool himself into thinking he can have meaningless sex. Sex is awesome, yes, that is not an issue that’s on the table. One-night stands with ninety-five-percent strangers are not, in Stiles’ book, as awesome. Really, Stiles likes to know the people whose dicks he touches.

 

Besides, Derek works in porn, and since Scott started working in the industry Stiles’ late night research binges have taken on a whole new turn, meaning there are too many article clips and quotes and information running through his brain for this to work out even if flings in bathroom stalls were his thing. All in all it’s contributing to bad performance anxiety and some health-centric horror stories that are sticking too close to the surface of his brain to get it up enough to even have performance anxiety.

 

“I have to go.”

 

Derek’s face freezes, eyebrows rising, eyes widening and yet somehow not entirely losing the sexy come hither-ness that has been entrancing Stiles. “What?”

 

“I’m here with my boss, we have a booth, I need to get back,” Stiles finds himself blurting out in a rush, backing away slowly, as though sudden movements might antagonize the man in front of him. The warm hands slide off him as he retreats.

 

“What?” Derek repeats, looking a little less shocked but just as bewildered, fingers curling into his empty palms, as though his hands are even confused at suddenly being empty. It’s like the man has never been rejected before.

 

Stiles’ eyes flit over Derek, darting from his eyes to his mouth to his neck, his shoulders, his stomach, his legs, his crotch- and then zipping back to his eyes. What is he thinking? Of course Derek looks like that. Who in their right mind would reject that? A body like that with the sexual prowess of, well, a porn star. Mentally, he winces while still backing away. If he doesn’t put some distance between himself and flirty, handsy, obviously inviting Derek very soon, his body is going to have a reaction that will directly contradict his words and thoughts.

 

Spilling out of the bathroom stall, Stiles pivots to catch his balance and attempt to execute a quick retreat that hopefully does not look as much like fleeing as it is, when he runs straight into another warm body.

 

This warm body, however, has breasts. One of which his right hand has incidentally found and is softly clutching, mostly in an instinctive desperation to keep his balance.

 

With a yelp of, “Oh my _God_ ,” he jerks back, realizes he’s moving back into the stall where Derek is still lurking, with his warm hands and hard muscled body, twists to alter to something more sideways, ends up smacking his hip into the stall doorway and, with a muttered, “Ow. Fuck,” miraculously spins clear. Rubbing fiercely at his no doubt bruising hip, Stiles turns to face the woman he accidentally assaulted, and silently curses any and all higher beings that may exist.

 

Laura Hale looks, in many ways, like her brother. It’s not the family resemblance that has Stiles identifying her though; it’s the fact that he’s watched nearly as many videos of her doing just as many amazing and one hundred percent naked and sexy things as he’s watched of Derek. She’s flexible and lithe and beautiful, but there’s always an air of power around her, a little like Allison’s, even on film, and now that he’s five feet away from her in person he understand why.

 

The fact that his hand was just on her breast terrifies him a little.

 

However, instead of chopping said hand off, she’s watching him, a dubiously amused look on her face and, once she knows he’s seen it, her gaze flickers between him and looking into the bathroom stall, at her brother. “Am I interrupting something?”

 

“No!” Stiles blurts, jumping forward a foot. She’d been asking Derek but, left to him, Stiles is sure the response would be a ‘yes,’ which it shouldn’t be. Unfortunately the offered answer means Laura’s eyes are back on him, just as electrifying and intense as her brother’s.

 

“Really?” Her eyebrow arches, high and perfect and so much like her brother that it’s a little unnerving.

 

Stiles nods. “Yes. Nothing happening. In fact, I was just heading out,” he explains, waving haphazardly toward the restroom door. “So…” He glances toward the stall, once, realizes he can’t see Derek from this angle, and returns his attention to Laura, who’s staring at him intently like he’s a puzzle she’s slowly working her way through. “I’m just going to go then. Since this is obviously a…” another vague motion, “family thing, and I was leaving anyway.” When she doesn’t say anything he takes a step back, and then another before turning around completely and walking out, refusing to cave under the physical pressure of Laura Hale’s stare boring into the space between his shoulders and looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://rlnerdgirl.tumblr.com/) for quick and easy updates on what I'm writing!


	3. Towels: sufficient for drying yourself off, not sufficient covering

Most likely due to his near breakdown halfway through Sunday, Trent forces Stiles to take Monday off. While he wants to work because he needs the money, Stiles doesn’t mind because he’s worked over eight hours a day for the past three days, through the weekend, earning time and a half, and then overtime on top of that, so the money doesn’t concern him—for once.

 

Besides, his arms are bruised from all the strangers, or customers as Trent would call them, groping him. The fact that they are not visibly bruised is beside the point. They feel sore and achy in a way that is altogether different than after a good climbing session, and not in a good way.

 

After waking up closer to noon than any other time he orders Chinese food for delivery, takes a shower, and settles in front of the TV with his laptop to binge on whatever is new on Netflix while getting some prime questing hours in on Guild Wars 2. Usually it would be a pristine day off because normally his weekends consist of roaming around the beach or wherever else with Scott, but the past few weekends have been pretty devoid of his best friend due to his new found relationship with the lovely brown haired goddess, Allison, leaving Stiles on his own, which often ends up looking almost identical to his day right now.

 

The ringing of his phone is a welcome relief from the dungeon he’s currently in. One of the many that is a breeze if you have half a dozen people working together, but leads to death and despair and flailing frustration that leaves your wrists bruised when you smash your hands into the wall above your head when you’re attempting it by yourself.

 

Letting his blue-skinned, orange-haired pixie of a sorcerer die another horrible death, he reaches for the phone, pulling a face when he sees the caller ID.

 

“You totally told me I could take the day off. You said, and I quote: ‘Thanks for being the most awesome employee I’ve ever had and letting hundreds of thousands of people grope you at a sex convention. Take Monday off, you deserve it.’”

 

“Okay. That, all of that, is- If what I said was a letter, it would be A, and what you just said isn’t even part of the alphabet. It’s a number, written in another language,” Trent clarifies. “Except for that last part, about having Monday off.”

 

Sighing, Stiles sinks back into the couch. There’d been a second of sheer panic when he saw Trent’s name on the screen of his phone where he was one thousand percent sure he was wrong and supposed to be more than halfway through his shift right now. “So, what’s the special occasion then?”

 

“Did you meet Laura Hale at Play Time?”

 

Stiles is no longer relaxed. “Um… that, may have, been a thing, that happened?” He’s not sure what answer Trent is looking for, because, yes Stiles met Laura Hale in the technical sense. He also put his hand on her breast in a very squeeze-like manner in an _extremely_ technical sense as well. Given that it’s Trent calling him, and not the police showing up on his door or something though, he’s hoping that second part isn’t the emphasis of the conversation.

 

“And you didn’t tell me?”

 

“It was a pretty brief meeting.” Besides, there’s no easy way to explain how you met a female porn star in the men’s bathroom and proceeded to run away from her. “Wait. How do you know about this? Why are you even calling me about this?”

 

An exasperated sigh bursts through the phone. “Brief,” Trent repeats, incredulous. “Well, it left an impression, whatever it was. I just got off the phone with her. She placed an order and asked to have you deliver it tomorrow. I’ll come by early, at one, and you’ll make the delivery. It’ll probably take you a few hours, so I’ll give you an hour overtime to help make up for gas.”

 

Stiles doesn’t have a clue what to do with any of that. “So… Uh. Okay. Sure. That sounds great. You’re coming in early tomorrow so I can deliver sex toys to Howl Productions tomorrow afternoon.” There’s some lingering hope that repeating it will make it sound more realistic and less completely ridiculous. It doesn’t.

 

“If this becomes a regular type of thing, Stacy might make me raise your pay,” Trent laments.

 

“No offense, but I really hope I get another job before I get a raise at my sex shop job.”

 

Trent laughs.

 

“Then… I still have today off.”

 

Another chuckle. “Yes. Go back to drinking Mountain Dew and playing Halo, or whatever it is you do in your nerd cave.”

 

Considering that is too close to what he is actually doing for comfort, Stiles pushes himself off the couch the moment he hangs up and retreats to his bedroom to pull together his climbing equipment. A few hours focusing on pushing into the 11’s should be enough to keep his brain occupied and away from the confusion rattling around his skull.

 

…

…

 

At one forty-five on Tuesday, Stiles finds himself passing over his driver’s license to gate security at Gate 1 of a walled off production lot that reminds him of a marriage between a scaled down version of the big name non-porn production studios and self storage warehouses. There are three fair sized boxes with God only knows what in them. It wasn’t that he’d been afraid of them in a way that surfaced in giving them the side-eye through his entire shift, he’d just decided it would probably be better if he didn’t know what was in them.

 

Following the directions that guard gave him, and the map with a very clear, highlighted route, Stiles makes his way to what he assumes is the main office, because there are a few different office-esque buildings amongst the small warehouses that don large bold numbers and names such as “Vagiville,” “Spardickus,” and “Dick n’ Slide” that must be sound stages. The office building he pulls up in front of is relatively small, three stories, plain, nothing that makes it stand out from the others except for the curved golden letters “Howling Hales” gleaming above the door. One of the parking spaces is even available.

 

There’s a small but comfortable lobby space through the main door, a few chairs that aren’t extravagant but cost more than anything in his and Scott’s living room, and a plain desk with a no doubt recent post-college blond girl manning it. She’s cute and looks like she should be working at some SilverLake coffee shop instead of in a porn production office

 

“Can I help you?”

 

With a nod, he moves to the desk. “Yeah. I’m looking for Laura Hale.”

 

“And you are?”

 

“From Morning Delight. I have a delivery for her.”

 

The girl’s lips curve into a smile she’s fighting a valiant battle to suppress, a battle she’s losing. Badly. “Is it still morning delight if it’s after noon?”

 

Stiles sputters.  “I meant-”

 

Her laughter cuts him off. “I know. I know. You’re on the schedule. Hold on a second.” Still chortling under her breath, she picks up the phone and taps in a few keys. “I have Stiles with the delivery from Morning Delight here for Laura. … Alright.” With a clatter the phone drops back into the cradle and she looks up. “She’ll be out in a minute. Do you want a water?”

 

A bit taken aback, he says, “No. That’s okay. I’m fine,” and moves back to sit in one of the chairs that are as comfortable as they look, which is suitably so. Despite the fact that he knows better than not to believe this whole thing is related to Laura Hale finding him and her brother in a bathroom stall together, he’s been hoping and praying and trying to brainwash himself into believing it’s all a coincidence.

 

It is so _not_ a coincidence.

 

A few minutes later Laura comes charging down the hall, absorbed in either an email or a massive text she is concocting. “Sarah,” she says, still halfway down the hall.

 

The semi-hipster blond receptionist, also known as Sarah, jolts upright, like someone’s just electrocuted her seat. “Yes?”

 

“We have a golf cart?”

 

With a nod, Sarah bends down to shuffle around her desk, which must be some level of messy considering it takes her a few moments. Soon enough she pops upright, holding up a key chain with a little silver key attached. “Number 1, your favorite.” Despite the words, she has a small smirking smile spreading across her lips that makes her look far more comfortable with her job and her duties than when she was scrambling for the key.

 

Glancing up from her phone, Laura shoots the offending key, and Sarah, a withering look. “I’m going to fucking kill him one of these days,” she mutters. Then her sharp eyes are snapping to Stiles. They’re intense and hard and he feels bolted down in place. It’s a thousand times worse when the contemptuous frown slips into a small, secret smirk. “Stiles.”

 

Somehow he manages to push himself out of the chair and to his feet. “Laura.”

 

“Nice to meet you… _again_.”

 

He nods. A bit jerkily because he’s having problems moving his body. There’s a very high probability that Laura, in no small way, terrifies him. A fact made significantly more impressive in that this is only their second meeting and all his previous knowledge of her involves sex. Copious amounts of sex. “Yes. You too.”

 

The smirk is no longer small or secret, but wide and mischievous—and then she’s snapping a nod. “Alright. You, with me.”

 

Sliding her phone into her pocket she snatches the keys to the golf cart from Sarah and tosses them to him.

 

He thanks four years of high school lacrosse for the fact that he catches them, even if he has no clue what to do with them, but he thinks it’s a safe bet to just follow Laura as she sweeps past him and out the door. There’s a golf cart of to the side that he didn’t notice on the way in, the number ‘1’ written on the front with black gaffer’s tape. “Which one’s yours?”

 

“The jeep.” He lifts a hand to point, lamely. It’s just two cars away.

 

“Okay.” Laura nods, claps her hands together. “Come on. Let’s get the boxes out. Three, right? Out and into the cart.” She moves forward toward the jeep and Stiles doesn’t have much choice but to follow. When she gets there she tries the door, finds it locked, and turns to land him with a perfectly arched eyebrow.

 

He jumps forward, digging in his pocket for the keys, and unlocks the door. “I thought I was just dropping these off?”

 

Laura’s moving a little quickly for him. Already Laura’s at the back, opening the jeep up and picking up a box. He scrambles to join her, stacking the other two on top of each other and hefting them up. They’re not all that heavy, but it seems impolite to have her do the lifting, he’s the delivery boy after all.

 

Which sounds a little wrong given where he is. Even if it’s only in his head.

 

“Yes. To the stage,” Laura fills in. Dumping her box on the back seat of the golf cart before stepping to the side to micro-manage Stiles’ dumping of his own boxes on the same seat. “I don’t know what you think we’d do with a box of sex toys at the office. We make porn, we don’t live in it.”

 

Of course Stiles instantly thinks back to his two meetings with Derek, both of which could easily have lead to porn-esque situations. Definitely that second one at least. There is no other reason for a man to pull another man into a bathroom stall and get up in his business. Not that sex is actually a good reason for that.

 

Scratch all of that. There is no proper reason, at all, for two men to be in a bathroom stall together.

 

Unless they are thirteen year old boys hiding from mall security because they tried to release the rabbits at the pet store.

 

Thanks, Scott.

 

“You’re driving.”

 

Wait. “I’m what?” but it’s pointless to ask, because he heard her, and even if he didn’t, she’s sliding into the passenger’s side, a clear enough message in it of itself.

 

“Driving.” She pats the driver’s seat and stares until he gets behind what feels like a toy steering wheel. “Come on, key in. It’s not rocket science.”

 

She’s right. It’s not. There’s a key hole the little silver key slips into, turns to the right, and then a switch under it: Forward, Reverse. “Wow.” It’s kind of ridiculously easy.

 

Flipping the switch to reverse, he presses his foot on the gas and they bolt backwards. “Oh my God!” he squawks, slamming his foot on the break. They jerk to a halt that almost has him smacking forward into the steering wheel and has the boxes rattling in the back seat.

 

Beside him, Laura’s laughing. “Watch out, they have a little kick to them when they’re fully charged.”

 

He gives her a sideways glance, wondering if she’s crazy, and having a disturbing feeling that this is not going to be the first or only time he will question her sanity. When it becomes clear that she’s given him all the advice she’s willing to dole out when it comes to golf cart driving, he turns his attention to continuing to reverse. Carefully this time.

 

When they’re clear of the actual cars, he clicks the cart into ‘Forward,’ and stops, overcome with the realization that- “I have absolutely no clue where we’re going.”

 

Beside him, Laura waves a flippant hand. “Keep going straight. Turn left before we pass Cock Doodler, right at the dead end, and stop at the Queefdom.”

 

“The Queefdom…”

 

It takes all of two minutes to get to the Queefdom, the largest of the sound stages they’ve passed on the way, and then he’s putting the golf cart into park and Laura’s telling him to follow her into the building to find someone to collect the boxes. The corner door leads to a small half-way room and another door with a light above it that, Stiles knows from his noob tourist visits to big name studios, let people know whether or not filming is currently taking place and if it’s safe to go in.

 

At the moment, the lights are out and Laura pushes through both doors before saying, “Take a look around, I’m going to grab someone to take care of those boxes,” and walking off with such purpose and swiftness he doesn’t even have the chance to follow, leaving him alone standing in a dimly lit warehouse filled with what looks like a full house divided room by separated room with many walls missing.

 

Unlike the tourist-filled guided tours he’d been on with Scott, the sound stage is full of people, cameras, a table along one wall with snacks and food, people with ear pieces and radios and phones and cameras, all consumed in their own worlds of work and duties. It’s actually kind of awesome. Curiosity getting the better of him, Stiles wanders away from the door and starts poking his way through the stage.

 

Wandering out the fake back door of a two-and-a-half-walled living room, he finds himself in a thirty foot hall of darkness, caught between the living room’s fake wall and the stage house’s real wall. He turns the other direction, catches dim light glinting off of flesh, and desperately wants to take a large step backward at the sight of stripped down, sweat slicked Derek wearing nothing but a low slung towel. Unfortunately his legs aren’t working properly and he’s rooted to the spot—staring, because his eyes aren’t working properly either.

 

Or maybe the problem is that they’re working perfectly fine.

 

Soft blue light from Derek’s cell phone illuminates everything from his chiseled abs to his panties-melting face as his thumbs tap away.

 

Stiles hopes against hope that his brain will reconnect with his limbs before Derek finishes whatever it is he’s typing, but, considering his luck when it comes to his interactions with the man so far, he’s not at all surprised when Derek’s thumbs stop moving and hands fall to his sides as he glances up. If Stiles weren’t full on boring holes into Derek with his stare, it’d be more surprising than it is that Derek appears to be aware that he’s being watched. As it is, his head turns and his eyes slide straight to Stiles’ like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s expecting this to be happening.

 

Who expects to be being stared at by a paralyzed and semi-panicking guy who’s just realized he is not on just any old movie set, but the set of a porno, doing his utmost not to think sexual thoughts about the person they’re staring at?

 

Derek I Only Have A Stupid Bar Towel Instead Of A Robe Hale, apparently.

 

As his lips split into what Stiles would only ever call a lecherous grin, Derek’s teeth are stark white in the darkness. “Whipped Cream,” he half inquires, half chuckles as he pushes away from the wall and prowls down the hall. Not walks. Prowls. It’s stupidly hot. “What are you doing here?” A perfect eyebrow arches.

 

Stiles’ jaw works, silently, for a few seconds before he’s able to swallow and say, “Laura placed an order at the store. I’m dropping it off.” By some miracle, he doesn’t sound as wrecked as he feels. In fact, he almost sounds normal.

 

Stopping barely a foot and a half from him, Derek’s head cocks to the side. “An order? From…” his eyes glance over Stiles, from head to foot, “your store?”

 

The whole thing is frustratingly confusing. The words sound genuinely confused and inquiring, like Derek has no clue why his sister would do such a thing, probably because he isn’t aware of the fact that they need anything and he’s trying to remember if he’s wrong in thinking that. But his eyes, raking over Stiles’ shoulders and chest and legs and crotch, make Stiles feel like he’s back to wearing a t-shirt a size too small and jeans that hug him in all the right and uncomfortable places, instead of his typical tri-layer-fecta of hipster nerd wear.

 

He’s not sure if Derek expects him to try to answer the non-question, or to jump him in response to that look.

 

To be clear, Stiles has no problem with the _idea_ of jumping Derek Tongue Made For Rimming Hale. He does, however, have an issue with the concept of actually doing it in _reality_. The issue being that Stiles likes to fantasize about one night stands and what life would be like as a player and the type of person who did those things, but in actuality he doesn’t have the emotional capability to successfully pull something like that off.

 

Also, Derek works in porn, and that, Stiles has comes to realize, puts him instantly on the Will Not Date list. Stiles is more than willing to admit that men live ninety percent of their lives with their dicks and their brains on separate sides of a line. Unfortunately, or luckily, depending on who’s gauging, Stiles’ brain has solidified its place as the driver. Basically, it comes down to the fact that, while it might as well be fact that sex with Derek would be the best sex Stiles could and would ever have in his entire life, he’s not the kind of person to sleep with someone who’s going to jump out of bed (or leave the bathroom stall) to go fuck someone else.

 

Even if it is just a job.

 

“You alright, Whipped Cream?”

 

“Stiles.” And Stiles would swear on his Xbox and Scott that his mouth is working of its own freewill, because clearly his brain is still not performing at its peek.

 

“Hm?”

 

Slowly, his brain starts coming back online. Enough so that he’s able to own up to what his mouth has done. “My name. It’s Stiles.”

 

Through the fleeting look of baffled amusement at hearing Stiles’ name, which he is altogether used to by now, Derek exults contentment. To the point that Stiles thinks he might have done something wrong, because nobody, in his entire life, has looked that way upon hearing his name. “Whipped Cream Stiles.”

 

No. No, “That wasn’t the point of me giving you my name,” Stiles sighs, a little put off. The whole ‘Whipped Cream’ thing is still as mortifying as the day they first met and Stiles heard the words coming out of his mouth. If he can get Derek to stop calling him that then maybe he an start functioning like a human being with mental faculties greater than a Chiweenie.

 

“I know.”

 

Good God, the man is as infuriating as he is hot.

 

“You know, I have to admit I was a little confused during that first conversation,” Derek muses, and Stiles watches him closely. There’s a gleam in those green eyes, something mischevious and dangerous—the good kind of dangerous, or not, well, the sexy kind of dangerous—and it puts Stiles on edge.

 

“You said candy underwear is sticky and messy, but isn’t whipped cream the same? It gets everywhere, and even when you lick it off there’s still that sweet-sticky residue.” Derek’s voice is low and rough, his pupils blown wide in the darkness of the hall, and he’s a towering pillar of heat that Stiles can feel because he’s taken a slow, smooth step forward and is now straight up in Stile’s space in a not so platonic way. “So what do you do after?”

 

Silence falls between them and it takes a few long seconds for Stiles to realize it’s because Derek asked a question, and is waiting for some kind of answer. An answer that Stiles isn’t giving because he’s too busy staring at Derek’s mouth wondering what it would feel like on him. Anywhere.

 

When he becomes aware of what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, it’s like being zapped by a badly wired outlet. A jolt spears through him so violently his whole body twitches and jumps, which proceeds to destroy the moment, whatever moment it was that was happening, and gives him control of his legs again. And with that, Stiles is leaping backwards.

 

Literally.

 

Leaping.

 

It’s such a fast, violent motion that it makes Derek jolt in surprise, eyes widening, head jerking back from where he’d been pressingly leaning forward into Stiles’ space. Of which he can’t lean into anymore because there’s about four feet between them.

 

“I have to go.”

 

Derek’s surprise slides away to an open stare of wondering bewilderment that is painfully familiar, because Stiles remembers it from the convention the day before yesterday. Today though, there’s also confusion, etched into the furrow of Derek’s brow and the miniscule downward tug at the left corner of his perfect lips.

 

“I drove your sister here. I should really make sure the boxes get unloaded and I’m there to drive her back to the office,” he explains, fishing for the key to the golf cart in his pocket and pulling it out like evidence. “It was…” he trails off, fishing for the right words and not finding them, “nice seeing you again.” Even in the moment, Stiles is painfully aware of how utterly lame that sounds.

 

Stiles has absolutely zero recollection of how he finds his way out of the sound stage, just that when he bursts out the doors he feels like he’s broken out of prison. Some kind of sex prison, and he doesn’t mean that in the sexy cool way that it probably sounds.

 

The golf cart is there, Laura lounging in the passenger’s seat working away on her cell phone. The back seat is devoid of boxes.

 

Glancing up from her phone, Laura grins and says, “Ah, there you are. I was afraid I might have lost you in there. It can be,” she pauses to catch the appropriate word, or maybe just for affect, and finished with, “intense.” She’s either much better at finding the right words or, Stiles thinks, it actually was a pause for affect. Besides, her smirk is much too devious for comfort.

 

“Ready to go back then?” He asks, only half interested in the answer, because he’s headed back, and if Laura’s in the cart then that means she is too. She gives some noise of affirmation, distracted by her phone again, as he clambers behind the wheel and shoves the key into the ignition.

 

They’re halfway back, speeding along at a speed that is probably too fast, when she says, “So, did you have sex with my brother?”

 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles gasps. The cart swerves off to the side, almost hits a parked car, and then screeches to a halt. “What?” Unsteadily, he turns to stare at her. He can feel his eyebrows up somewhere near his hairline and is surprised his eyes haven’t fallen out of his skull.

 

Laura looks delightfully amused. She may very possibly be the devil. “I found you in a bathroom stall with him on Sunday. He was touching you, and not in a friends way. Since you weren’t naked and didn’t look like you’d just survived a tornado, I assumed you were on your way there.”

 

The noise that crawls out of Stiles’ throat and spills off his lips to land in the space between them and die is strangled. The beginnings of a good blush is starting at his collar bones.

 

“And since he’s very knowledgeable, I’m assuming fifteen minutes in a dark corner of a sound stage would have been plenty of time. For you at least.”

 

The world is spinning and tilting, but that’s due to the fact that Stiles is starting to shake his head. Mainly because he hopes if he denies what is happening hard enough, maybe it won’t be happening.

 

“No sex then?” She sounds surprised.

 

“Oh my _God_.”

 

“Sex then?” Not surprised. Also, disappointed?

 

Stiles’ hands fly up into the air, smacking against the roof of the golf cart with a hard _thwack_ that makes his knuckles and wrists sting and would probably really hurt if he wasn’t busy being mortified to the point of wanting to die. “No sex!”

 

“But he offered.” Not a question.

 

Another noise. This one high and pained.

 

“Stiles?”

 

Closing his eyes, Stiles turns to face the steering wheel, grabs it in a white-knuckled grasp, and takes a few moment to breath. Sensing she’s on the verge of witnessing a stranger’s mental breakdown, Laura remains silent. He assumes it’s because she doesn’t want to have to take time out of her day to call an ambulance.

 

Finally he opens his eyes and says. “This is the worst conversation I’ve ever had in my life. Worse than talking about sex with my dad.”

 

The somber blankness that had fallen over Laura’s features gives way to another grin. She doesn’t look sorry in the least. “Did he offer?”

 

“Not- He didn’t _ask_ me to have sex with him. Why- Why are we even talking about this? I am really, really not okay with talking about this.”

 

“And you said no,” she continues, ignoring his distress.

 

“Yes. I mean no. Well, I didn’t technically say no. But he didn’t technically ask, so it’s hard to say no to something you weren’t actually asked.” Stiles pauses, takes a breath, clears his head, and continues. “I’m not going to have sex with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

Laura’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as she looks him over, searching for what, he’s not sure. “But you like him?”

 

“Like him?” He asks back, as though repeating it will help him translate the question. “I- I don’t even _know_ him. I mean, he’s nice, kind of? In a weird way. Like…” He was going to say ‘like you,’ but thinks better. Not because he thinks she’d be offended, but because Laura doesn’t seem nice, even in a weird way, she just seems scary, and in all kinds of ways. “Why do you want to know about this at all? I mean, do you want me to have sex with him? Are you offended on his behalf? Because you don’t have to be. I’m not blind after all, if I just wanted to have random semi-anonymous sex then-” With the sudden realization that he’s talking to Derek’s sister, Stiles cuts of, quickly and completely. Almost as quickly, he can feel the hot flush of a nervous blush working its way up his neck.

 

Foot, meet mouth.

 

Smile widening, Laura lets out a light chuckle. “You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a job, would you?”

 

Stiles eyes her. “Pretty sure what I just said about relationships and sex makes me the absolute worst candidate for porn.”

 

“While that’s a shame, I have something else in mind. One of our set assistants just left and we’re a little short handed, I was wondering if you’d like to help us out.”

 

“How much does it pay?” He asks before even thinking about it. Really, he wants to pay off his loans sometime this century, even if it means working in the same general area as Derek Master Of Uncomfortably Sexy Conversations Hale.


	4. New Job: great paycheck, potentially worst mistake ever

One of the most important rules to live by in the entertainment industry (though Stiles uses that loosely, he’s aware that the porn industry isn’t necessarily considered part of the “entertainment industry” by industry people standards), is to never assume. Stiles learns this lesson, as with many of his lessons, through doing.

 

He assumed he would be giving Trent two weeks notice.

 

He assumed Trent would be silently happy, but sad to see his one and only other employee (other than his wife), leave the shop.

 

He assumed he was going to be Laura’s personal assistant.

 

They’re back at the offices, Laura leaning back in her chair that doubtless costs as much as Stiles’ mattress, elbows propped on her long glass desk with waterfall edges, looking quite pleased with herself. She smiles that smile Stiles is quickly learning to be wary of and outright laughs.

 

“ _My_ assistant? Why would I need an assistant? Between Sarah and Francis, I have my whole life taken care of. Those two have perfectly good heads on their shoulders. Derek though—” A low chuckle dribbles from her lips as she shakes her head. “Nothing on two legs and a heartbeat can stay around Derek for more than ten minutes before getting thoroughly distracted by how much they want him to fuck them, or them to fuck him, whatever the preference. Except,” she settles Stiles with an amused grin and raised eyebrow, “you, apparently. The man who refuses to sleep with my brother despite actually being hit on.”

 

“No.”

 

“No?” The smirking curve of her red lips fades into a quirked purse of confusion. In it, he can see the shadow of her brother. Neither of them appear to have much of a relationship with rejection, as it confuses both of them.

 

As though it will help get his message across, Stiles shakes his head and repeats, “No.”

 

“No.” Coming off Laura’s tongue for the second time, it sounds like a word she’s never spoken before. As though she’s giving it a test ride, tentatively working her way around a new language as she attempts to understand it. Given the way she’s looking at Stiles, perhaps it’s because she doesn’t. “Why?”

 

“Maybe because it would be the most awkward job of all time, and I don’t want to spend my working days feeling weird about rejecting my boss’ sexual advances?”

 

It’s an argument that appears to have little to no effect on the woman in front of him. In fact, the sardonic grin is back. “He wouldn’t be your boss,” is the response, with all the casual flippancy of someone who has clearly not understood the major point of the argument and finds the current point of debate ridiculous. “I would be your boss. He would simply be the person you’re working for.”

 

“That… that’s not even- It’s still a problem!”

 

“So you’ll, what, settle down at Morning Delight for the long haul?”

 

Stiles deflates a little at that. The idea of going back to a buck over minimum wage and the spinning wheely chair behind the counter of Morning Delight, handing dildos, pornos, and fake vaginas every days has soured since having the tantalizing taste of a job that would actually allow him to pay loans and rent and maybe go to a movie every once in awhile. He settles for, “That’s not really your problem.”

 

“Well, the job typically makes eight hundred a week.”

 

Despite wanting to play it cool, he can’t help the way his eyes bug a little at that. It’s more than twice what he’s been making (before taxes, of course, three times after) at Morning Delight. It takes a few long, deep breaths to kill down the instant reaction of jumping up and agreeing to take the job, and some serious, yet brief, contemplation over all his meetings to date with one Derek Close Wants Sex Even In A Bathroom Stall Hale, to put things back into perspective.

 

The job is in porn. Sure, it’s not too much different than what he’s been doing—he’d still be surrounded by penises, vaginas, and sex, that is—and Scott’s working in porn, Stiles really isn’t in a place to judge or think he’s all that much better. It’s good money, yes. He’d comfortably be able to pay loans, even increase the payments he’s making, and do fun things on the side. On the other hand, he’d be putting himself into a situation in which he is in close proximity to one Derek Sexual Harassment Lawsuit Waiting To Happen Hale.

 

He’s about to say no for the third and final time, when Laura preemptively strikes. “I could go up to nine-fifty though, since it’s such a special occasion. Finding the one person in the city who’s actually going to be able to do their job and not just throw themselves at my brother, that is.”

 

Holy crap. Nine hundred fifty dollars a week is- Stiles does a few quick calculations and ends up with an annual salary number fitting of a real, honest to God career job. Entry level, sure, but light years from what he’s been making or hoping to make considering what’s on his resume at the moment.

 

“What do you say?”

 

Stiles works his jaw as his mind runs as he asks himself a few questions. Namely: at this point in his life, what is he not willing to do for a shy of forty-eight thousand dollar salary? One of the answers is, in fact, porn. None of the answers is: work in the porn industry as an assistant for a ridiculously good looking guy that wants to bone you , but you won’t on the premise that (a) he’s a porn star, and (b) you are not interested one night/day/morning/evening/afternoon stands.

 

Even the voice in his head that sounds like his dad is telling him he’d be an idiot not to at least take the offer. It’s not like he’s going to be chained to it. If the job gets to be too weird, he’ll just quit.

 

With a breath, Stiles says, “Alright. Fine. I’ll do it.”

 

Laura’s resulting smile is anything but reassuring. “Perfect. I’ll give Trent a call and you can come in tomorrow.”

 

“Tomorrow?” Stiles gapes, and then continues with, “Wait, why are you calling him? He’s my boss.”

 

“Well, the job is currently empty, and I really can’t rely on Derek to properly manage himself without an assistant, so, yes, tomorrow. And while I’m sure Trent is a perfectly fine human being, I highly doubt he’ll let you off with no notice. I, however, have methods of persuasion.”

 

“Just so you know, he’s happily married.”

 

For a moment, Laura just stares at him. Then, finally, she nods. “Good. I was starting to get concerned that you didn’t have any bite to you.”

 

Rubbing his temples, Stiles sighs, already second guessing his decision.

 

…

…

…

 

All that Stiles knows for certain, is that Trent has a hell of a back bone, because he doesn’t find himself driving back to the Howling Hales studio until the following Monday. The previous week had been a flurry of organizing Morning Delight, posting Help Wanted signs and internet postings, and eventually conducting interviews until the shop was settled with a decent replacement: a twenty-one year old USC drop out looking for a way to pass the time and make some money while figuring out what to do in life.

 

She has great breasts and fantastic smile, and a straight glare of, “Do not fuck with me,” that was on par with Lydia and Laura, the two most terrifying women Stiles has encountered thus far in his life. He has no doubt she would thrive in her role as Porn Shop Cashier.

 

Stiles, however, isn’t so certain about his own future.

 

“Derek never hires his own assistants, and he’s never been too fond of any of them, so he technically doesn’t know he has a new one yet,” Francis explains. It’s ticking close to eleven, and up until now Stiles has been hunkered down at HR filling out his employment forms after carpooling to the studio with Scott, which was, admitantly, kind of awesome. Ten minutes ago he was pointed back toward Laura’s office where her assistant, Francis, had him pull up a chair so he could go over the job details in full.

 

For the past week Stiles has been questioning his sanity in taking the job, and so far his meeting with Francis isn’t helping.

 

“Derek doesn’t know I’m his assistant?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Francis sighs. “Yes. Okay, Stiles, you’re going to need to be a little more quick on the uptake if you want to not get fired by the end of the day. Stick with me and pay attention.”

 

Hiring paperwork must take at least a full twenty-four hours to process, which probably means Stiles isn’t even a real employee yet, which definitely means he can walk away. It’s a thought he keeps on the back burner.

 

“Heidi Lawrence, the EP, and James Farvitch, the DP, both know what you’ve been hired to do, but for the week, you’re going to just be a new set PA. If things seem to work out, then Laura will talk to Derek at the end of the week and you’ll transition into your actual job assignment.”

 

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles asks on the bursting breath of a half laugh.

 

Francis shoots him a narrow-eyed glare that clearly says he is not kidding anyone about anything and this is all very serious business.

 

“I’m getting a trial run and if I don’t have sex with my future boss then I get the job?”

 

Francis’ lips purse so tightly it’s difficult to tell whether he’s trying to hold back saying something, or fighting a smile. Unfortunately, his eyes are still narrowed in that critical, appraising way so much so that he’s not revealing anything there either. Long seconds slip by until finally he opens his mouth with a dry pop and says, “Pretty much.”

 

Throwing his hands into the air, Stiles cries, “Oh my _God_. I am not going to have sex with Derek Hale. Why is that so difficult to believe?”

 

The resulting look Francis gives him to that is neither difficult to determine or in need of translation.

 

“Ungh. Fine. What does a set PA even do?”

 

“Oh good Lord.”

 

…

…

…

 

Everything. That is the answer to his question. A set PA does everything.

 

All too soon Stiles finds himself in the Queefdom, armed with a walkie-talkie, the names of the EP and DP, and a quick introduction to Greenberg, the other set PA who is now the Yoda to Stiles’ young Skywalker. Pornwalker? Shaftwalker? Is there an ideal ironic Skywalker porno name?

 

“Craft services is inside along the south wall. The main DP station is in the north-east corner, that’s also where extra scripts are, in case someone needs one. In brief, we do anything and everything that needs doing, main helpers to our AD’s. Stay out of the way of the EP and DP unless they request something directly from you. First in, last out. Distributing paperwork, scripts, and radios. Basically… everything. It’s really easier than it sounds, promise you. Especially on features, and it being porn—well, it’s manageable with just one. I really don’t know why we got a second, especially halfway through filming.”

 

Greenberg talks fast enough that Stiles has a problem keeping up with him, which is saying something, as Stiles’ default speed is a notch or two above everyone else’s. He gets the gist of the message though, which seems good enough to start with.

 

Either way, he must still look lost, because Greenberg glances at him, claps him on the shoulder, and says, “Just stick around me today to get the hang of things,” which ends up being much easier said than done.

 

For the most part, Greenberg is right. It’s a lot easier than Stiles had been building it up to be when attempting to follow Greenberg’s initial rant-tastic explanation of the job and Francis’ reaction to his inquiry about what the job was. During filming, things are deadly silent. There’s no going in and out of the stage, which means, even if they have something to do outside, they can’t do it, and all radios are turned off or extremely down so even communication to the outside is down to a minimalistic whisper.

 

It’s the second take of the day, of Stiles’ day at least, when he finds himself passing behind camera A, which is steadily focused on an armory room, where Derek has Erica bent over a metal table, fake guns on either side and spilled over the ground, and is slipping his wet fingers out of her to line himself up, when Stiles makes the horrible mistake of allowing his eyes to flicker away from the ground in front of him so he doesn’t trip over the mass of wires spreading everywhere, and toward the scene unfolding.

 

They’ve been filming for all of four minutes and the panting, breathy moans and pure filth of encouragement spilling from Erica’s lips are finding their way to his dick despite six months of sex shop work, and it’s too much to ask for him _not_ to look. He’s a guy.

 

It’s porn.

 

He’s a guy who hasn’t had sex in six months.

 

And it’s really, really good porn.

 

Thanks to his luck, which is shoddy on a good day, Stiles’ eyes don’t magically snap to Erica’s breasts, which are one of God’s finest piece of art and currently bursting out from her extremely low cut black tank top under her unzipped tactical vest. No. Stile’s eyes instead land on Derek’s shoulder, which is wholly random and thus normal. Unfortunately, his brain needs to put the tanned, sweaty, rippling muscled shoulder into perspective, and his eyes, unbidden to his will, find their way to Derek’s face.

 

As though sensing the pressure of a new pair of eyes on him, Derek turns his head ever so slightly to the side and his eyes dart from Erica to scan the crowd.

 

Stiles is still letting out a low breath of, “Crap,” when their eyes meet.

 

Derek’s jaw clenches and his eyes narrow until Stiles can feel the laser beam pressure of them boring into his skull, threatening to boil his brain, before moving to turn his attention back to Erica. Too late, however, because James is already calling cut, walking in front of the cameras and toward Derek, who’s stepping away from Erica so she can stand and move off to put herself in working order. “What the hell was that, Derek? You completely lost it.”

 

“Stiles?”

 

Jumping at his name, he turns to find Greenberg watching him, smirking. “Come on.”

 

Trying to ignore the pretty blatant anger, if not hatred, that was Derek’s reaction to seeing him, Stiles takes relief in his out and follows Greenberg away from the armory set, walking until they’re in a relatively secluded area. “Um…” Unless Greenberg’s suddenly looking to hook-up, Stiles’ isn’t sure what they’re actually doing in this dark and mostly quiet corner.

 

Turning back to him, Greenberg says, “I get it. It’s porn and there are totally natural reactions to watching it, which is why you should try to keep yourself from doing that too much, in the beginning at least, you get used to it eventually. Kind of a porn desensitization. For now though, if you have nothing to do during a take, play Angry Birds or check Facebook or something.”

 

So a dark corner hook-up is not in the future. Thank God. No, this is just another extremely awkward conversation thanks to the career path Stiles had decided to go down the moment he agreed to work at Morning Delight with Scott. This is just Greenberg tell him how not to get a boner while working on the set of a porno.

 

“The first few days will be rough. If you need to…” he waves his hand in a vague gesture that Stiles instantly understand and needs no clarification for, “…jerk off or something, just let me know you’re stepping out so I don’t think you’re lost or something.”

 

“Oh my God,” is a sad, low, murmured mutter of a statement. A low plea for Greenberg to please just stop speaking.

 

“Dude. Don’t worry. It’s totally normal. Nobody’s gonna think anything of it if they notice. I mean, it’d probably be more weird if you _didn’t_ get turned on. Dude. It’s Howling Hales. This is some first grade porn in the making.”

 

Stiles legitimately can’t tell if he wants to run away or punch Greenberg in the face. Instead he ends up just saying, “Alright. Cool. Thanks for the advice,” and getting another slap on the shoulder.

 

“No problem.”

 

Despite Greenberg’s go-ahead to use the facilities as needed to relieve the pressures of working on an active set on which mind-blowingly hot people are having sex, Stiles makes the executive decision to avoid getting himself into a position to see anything that’s happening and could thus lead to a situation that would thus need taking care of. It doesn’t help the sounds, which are trouble enough by themselves, but it helps enough that he doesn’t have a raging boner for the next hour until the DP calls for lunch.

 

Getting out of the studio to accompany Greenberg in picking up specialty meals for Derek, Erica, and Isaac—the three big names—is a blessing and a curse. Putting distance between himself and Derek, who’s tense, antagonizing glare is still prominent in his head, as well as the nakedness and breasts and penises, is a feeling of relief on par with finally getting to go to the bathroom after holding it in when he and Scott go tickets that let them into Disney Land three hours before the park officially opened.

 

On the other hand, he spends the time with Greenberg, who, really, isn’t that bad of a guy. He’s just Greenberg, quirky and a little weird and definitely really into his job and porn.

 

By the time they get back, he’s feeling surprisingly refreshed and ready to face the second half of the day.

 

“Why don’t you make your way to crafty and get yourself something to eat. I’ll drop these off today and you can do the rounds tomorrow,” is less of a question than it is a statement, and one that Stiles is all too happy to hear.

 

“No problem,” he agrees, hopping out of the golf cart and stepping out of the way of the cart just in time for Greenberg to throw a wave and smash his foot down on the peddle. He doesn’t need the prompt of his stomach grumbling to get him moving toward the stage and the decked table of food that had included sandwich making supplies when he and Greenberg had headed out, and, he’s hoping, still remain.

 

Luck having turned for the better, there’s enough left for him to compile two large sandwiches that would, no doubt, receive an eye roll from his father and do, indeed, receive dubious glances of some of the other crew. He’s topping off his second sandwich when Joe, the second AC, catches his eye.

 

“Stiles, yo! Finish that monster up and join us.”

 

“Yeah, cool, just a second,” he calls back, pressing down the top piece of bread before moving down to grab a bag of chips, and then down a little further to get a soda. There aren’t any left, which is a little to be expected, though there are still some bottle waters. What isn’t expected is to be grabbed by the arm and pulled behind a fake wall by one Derek I Stalk New Employees Around Sound Stages Hale.

 

Stiles would be surprised, but he’s starting to get used to the shock of finding himself with Derek all up in his grill at random and inconvenient moments.

 

Derek Stills Smells Like Sex From The Porn He’s Taking A Break From Filming Hale. Pushing that thought aside, Stiles focuses on being indignant about having his lunch interrupted. “Can I do something for you?”

 

After the words leave his mouth, Stiles realizes it probably wasn’t the right question, because the look Derek gives him says that there is definitely something Stiles could do for him, and it more likely than not involves being on his knees. It’s a little confusing, considering the fact that he somehow also manages to look absolutely irritated and maybe even more than a little pissed. He glares at the walkie strapped to Stiles’ hip before settling him with a hard stare.

 

When Derek asks, “What are you doing here?” it’s low and gravely, which makes it sexy by default, but it’s not meant to be sexy. It’s a real question. In fact, it’s crisp and hard and sounds as aggravated as he looks, maybe even accusatory.

 

This is not the same, ‘What are you doing here?’ as last week, not by a long shot, and the polarity is staggering.

 

Maybe three rejections were too much.

 

Maybe Derek snapped.

 

Maybe Stiles broke Derek by refusing to have sex with him, which, alright, that sounds absolutely insane, but he doesn’t have any other explanation for what’s happening.

 

He wants to snap something back like, ‘Working, fuck you very much,’ but considering the present company, and history with present company, he’s not sure how biting or wise that would be. Asshole, douchebag, and dick are all crossed off the list for similar reasons, which means he settles for a bland, yet scathingly flat, “Working. Why?”

 

“Working.”

 

It’s reassuring to know that other people repeat things they don’t understand and that it’s not just him. It’s a little ridiculous that he notices that the sour, prickly-stick-shoved-up-the-ass look that he’s currently observing is another one of those idiosyncrasies that the Hale siblings share.

 

“Working here.” How Derek Flirting The Vicky Mendoza Diagonal Hale manages to make that sound like a statement and a question at the same time is one of the mysteries of life Stiles is sure will never be revealed to him.

 

Wrenching his arm out of Derek’s grasp, Stiles settles for rotating it a few times to work the ache of ridiculously stronger fingers out of his muscles as his other hand is busy making sure his works of edible perfection don’t fall to their deaths. “Yes, working here.”

 

“Since when?”

 

“Since now. Today,” he tosses back, wishing he could say something more along the lines of, ‘Since none of your business,’ except the production is Howling Hales after all and Derek is technically one of his employers, no matter what Laura says about bosses. Stiles takes a half step backward. He would take a full step back, but somehow he’s found himself once again between Derek Made Of Muscles Hale and a hard place—which is, certainly to Derek’s chagrin, neither of their dicks, but a legitimate solid surface. At least, the chagrin of the Derek he’d run into before. Who knows what this Derek wants. Probably Stiles to lose his job, from the looks of it.

 

Jaw clenched, Derek’s hard eyes search Stiles’ face, as though looking for some sign of deception. “Laura did this.” Definitely not a question.

 

Stiles snorts. “Okay, so, my name doesn’t need to be Sherlock to see that you apparently have a problem with this.” He starts, and continues before Derek has the chance to get a word in edgewise. “But, you know what, I don’t really care. So, if that’s all…” He raises his eyebrows and waits, refusing to let on to how amusing it is to watch Derek Suave Sultry Flirty Hale stare back with widened eyes and a slack, speechless mouth.

 

Taking a note from Greenberg’s book, Stiles reaches forward and gives Derek a friendly pat on the shoulder before sliding out from between Derek and the faux wall behind him and picking his way back toward Joe and the other camera guys. He wonders, idly, if Derek felt this smugly satisfied during their previous encounters and if the reason for his being so peeved isn’t because Stiles is here, working for Howling Hales, in the Queefdom, but because Stiles got the drop on him this time.

 

Then he reminds himself that it doesn’t really matter either way, because Derek Drives His Assistants Into Sexually Induced Insanity Hale is just going to be his boss-yet-not and nothing else, which is perfectly fine, because that’s all Stiles wants.

 

As a matter of fact, Stiles doesn’t even want that. All he wants is a good paycheck and to not find himself in weird interactions with Derek Greek Statue Come To Life Hale that make him wonder if he needs to go to HR and file a sexual harassment complaint.

 

Either way, he’s feeling pretty good about himself and relatively good about the new job when he sits down to consume his two massive sandwiches and shoot he shit with his new co-workers for the next fifteen minutes until he faces the second half of his first day on the job.

 

And if Derek gives him just short of scathing looks every time they see each other, that’s perfectly fine, because Derek is not his problem. Derek’s life and work schedule will be his problem, but Derek himself, well, Stiles can book a therapy session for the man next week once he’s started his real job. 


	5. Hiding: Underrated and not nearly as cowardly as it sounds

Stiles doesn’t see much of Scott outside of their carpooling, which, if he’s honest, he’s a little surprised Scott’s still around for the ride. He’s gone every evening and most of the night most nights now. Then again, supposedly in-love Scott doesn’t seem to make rash decisions so Stiles lets him off the hook. Even if Scott was around more often though, Stiles isn’t sure he wants to actually share anything with him, it’s all so thoroughly bizarre and weird that he needs time to come to grips with his life as it is before he goes about discussing it with people, even if that person is Scott. Besides, Scott’s enjoying being in love and Stiles, while a little jealous, isn’t going to go stampeding in there with his life crisis. Especially considering how idiotic it is.

His second day on the job, Stiles has every intention of steering clear of active filming when sex related things are happening as well as Derek himself, which, he’s hoping, won’t be entirely difficult. After all, Derek Pod Person Hale hadn’t seemed to have the same interest in him yesterday as their previous meetings, something that Stiles has completely, almost, convinced himself is a very good thing as the attention was in no way desired.

While he gets through the entire beginning of the day successfully avoiding Derek, it’s more because he is insanely busy and hasn’t spent more than ten seconds standing still at any particular moment. Apparently a single day was all the training Greenburg was willing to give him and now Stiles has been fully adopted as PA, complete with real responsibilities and no-joke shit fits when he messes up—which he’s only done once, and really, what exactly is it that happens to people that, when they enter the entertainment industry, means getting their coffee with a single extra sugar packet translates to: catastrophe? 

For a moment he thought he’d poisoned someone.

Then lunch comes around and Greenburg makes sure to remind him that it’s now his job to feed the actors. 

Including Derek All You Have To Do Is Sleep With Me To Get Fired Hale.

The one beautiful thing about getting lunch for Derek, Erica, and Isaac is that Stiles gets to take the hour before the technical lunch break to leave the lot and drive out to a real restaurant and buy real food for them because this is not New York and not every place has the courtesy to deliver, for which he is more than thankful. Not only does he get an hour away from penises and vaginas and breasts and lube and dildos and wet fingers and tongues, he gets to buy himself real food because now he’s actually making enough that he can afford it. There’s also the added bonus of not only turning his walkie down, but actually turning it off and unhooking it from his pants completely, during which he channels the inner Mel Gibson and fiercely whispers, “Freedooooooom!” 

Best of all, it means an absolute solidly zero percent chance of Derek encounters and Stiles feels his muscles relax for the first time all day. Not that the tension doesn’t come back the instant he drives back onto the lot, because it does. With vengeance.

Being the brilliant man that he is though, he’s back a full ten minutes before lunch is scheduled to be called and, for one of the few times in his life, luck is on his side, when he walks past the Queefdom the red light is on, which means Derek’s trailer has a ninety-two percent likely hood of being empty. The knowledge makes him walk faster, though someone else might say he has a bounce to his step and not be completely wrong. Still, he approaches Derek’s trailer tentatively, half expecting the man to open the door right as he touches the handle, pull him inside, and… well, attempt to woo him? He doesn’t have any other word for what Derek’s been doing.

Aggressive flirting? Maybe that’s better.

The trailer, thankfully, is empty.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, or at least not this time, Stiles drops Derek’s salad (Asian chicken, who knew?), plastic-ware (Stiles doesn’t care how much he’s making, he’s not washing dishes so Derek Multi-Millionaire Hale can have real flatware in a trailer), and coconut water (seriously, who drinks coconut water except for Derek I Probably Say ‘My Body Is My Temple’ Hale?) on the mini table, and exits in all of under three seconds. Even with the door closing behind him, he doesn’t quite believe he’s made it out unscathed, and takes advantage to duck away to Isaac’s trailer next.

He’s in Erica’s trailer, laying out her sandwich (pulled pork, a woman after his own heart), fries (curly, more points there), and milkshake (why doesn’t he look like a sex God when he’s been on this diet for years already?) when the door opens. With a start of surprise, Stiles glances up and then jumps again at the sight of Erica, shiny with sweat, and wearing a very open robe. 

Impulsively his eyes sweep down and back up, clearly seeing things that are not at all, or not very discretely, hidden, and then feels himself starting to flush with embarrassment. “Your lunch,” he attempts, whipping his attention back to the plastic bag he’s ruffling through, grabbing the plastic-ware and napkins to set on the table before righting himself and heading for the door—which she is still standing in front of as though it is her personal duty to make his life awkward.

For a few long seconds, that feel a lot more like minutes, they stare at each other, Erica’s gaze strong and solid, Stiles’ desperate to stay above her neck. 

“You’re the new set PA,” she says finally, a shine of soft amusement twinkling in her eyes, the corners of her lips curving into the shadow of a smile.

Good God. If Stiles thought it was possible he’d say it was somewhere in porn industry by-laws to find some kind of hidden amusement in making a Stilinski feel the most awkward discomfort of his life. If only he had his radio so he could feint business—except it’s still off because he’d been taking so much joy in his errand. Oh the irony. 

Instead he shifts from one foot to the next and says, “Yeah?” though he doesn’t mean it to sound like a question. Then again, in many ways Erica exudes the same power and control and presence that Derek The Almighty Hale and his sister do, and it’s already been proven how well Stiles does with those two monsters. 

“Bought yourself some lunch?”

She glances pointedly at the other bag in Stiles’ hand and he nods. “Yeah.” It’s a wonder he graduated college with a vocabulary like his.

Pulling at the front of her robe, Erica thankfully closes it, loosely tying it at the front. It’s not a tight enough wrap to completely conceal her, but it covers her lower half and the plunging neckline at least only reveals a semi-indecent amount of supple breast versus and NC-17 amount. Her red lips part into a wider smile, more friendly but only slightly less predatory. “Join me?”

Stiles blinks, not sure he heard her correctly. If he did, he’s pretty sure the world is ending. Who are these porn stars interested in spending time with him and what, exactly, is his life? “I’m actually really busy. I’m sure there’s a ton of stuff waiting for me.” He’s not entirely sure why he’s not saying yes to Erica, but it has something to do with feeling like chopped liver in front of a hungry dog. Lunch is supposed to be a relaxing time, not a jittery, twitchy, uncomfortable time.

Erica lets out a sharp “Pft” as he rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on, you’re not a real set PA. Greenburg’s got it under control. You’re probably the next assistant Laura’s picked for Derek. Sit down and take a load off.”

It would be fantastic if Stiles had a response to that so he could get something to come out of his open mouth, but he doesn’t so nothing does, which is an odd sensation as he’s not one to find himself short of words often. Then again, considering his recent encounters of the Derek Awkward Sexual Pressure Hale kind, one would think he’s getting used to it.

“Perfect,” Erica all but purrs, finally moving away from the door, secure in the knowledge that she has beaten the fight out of him, for the time being, and stalks to the miniature trailer table where she takes a seat in a graceful flourish of loose robes, flawless skin, and free-swinging breasts. “So, I’m right then, about you being Derek’s new personal assistant? Given you get through the first week without getting plowed by him in a dark corner that is.”

Stiles tries to disguise the pained noise crawls it’s way out of his throat by lifting up the plastic doggy bag that contains his lunch with as much crinkling and shuffling possible. From the thin stretch wry smile on Erica’s face, he doesn’t think he succeeded. “I don’t know why everybody expects me to have sex with him. Has it really been that big of a problem in the past?” Really, over the embarrassment of the entire situation Stiles still finds the whole thing more than a little ridiculous and silly. He can’t possibly be the only person in all of LA willing to work in porn and not willing to have sex with Derek Emperor Of All Naked Activities Hale.

From the dry laugh that peals out of Erica and the way she throws back her head to let it fill the trailer he guesses that, perhaps, he is.

Not quite as amused as his lunch date, he focuses on unwrapping his burger and dumping his fries onto a napkin.

When her laugh finally dies a slow death, she settles him with delicately raised eyebrows that he thinks are either disbelief, amusement, surprise, or some mixture of all three. “You’re really determined to get through the week, hm?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’d repeat myself, but apparently words don’t actually mean anything, so I’ll just save my breath while everybody doesn’t hold theirs.”

“I like you. What’s your name?”

“Stiles.”

Whatever she was expecting ‘Stiles’ wasn’t it. Then again, he’s yet to meet someone who was, so he’s used to that look she’s giving him. He gave up explaining the whole last name to nick name because first name is unmanageable and terrible when he was about ten, so he leaves her hanging until she realizes that’s all she’s going to get. Eventually she nods and settles with, “Well, I like you Stiles. Let’s make sure you stick around.”

Great, the concept that he will remain fortified in his resolve to not have sexual intercourse with Derek Fuckmaster Hale is so unbelievable that, apparently, he will actively need assistance. If he wasn’t one-hundred percent dedicated to staying untouched, for the rest of the week, by the hands of his soon-to-be boss he would be now purely out of spite. The “Thanks” he musters is ungrateful and flat even to his own ears.

“You know, Stiles, I have to say, you don’t quite look the type.”

“The type to what? Refuse sex with Derek, or the type to successfully have sex with Derek?”

Erica shakes her head as she picks up her sandwich. “The porn industry type,” she clarifies before taking a bite that it is at once impressive and unnervingly horrifying.

“I’m not. I mean, I’m doing this, but it’s more of a ‘graduated college and have no other prospects’ thing than a career path,” he admits. Normally he’d be afraid the admission of lack of dedication would be detrimental to his job, but since he’s apparently going to be the golden goose of Derek Hale potential personal assistants he’s pretty secure in his employment.

“The what do you want to be doing with your life?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure that out.”

He’s just stuffed his face with a literal handful of French fries when there’s a knock on the trailer door. Erica calls out, “Eating, but dressed. Don’t bother me if it’s not important.”

A moment later the door pops two inches open to reveal a sliver of Greenburg, who catches sight of Stiles and then the door flies open. “Stiles! Dude, what are you doing? We have stuff we need to take care of.”

Trying to chew and swallow as fast as possible, Stiles starts to pile his lunch stuff together until Erica’s emphatic, “Stuff it, Greenburg,” draws him short. “Stiles is keeping me company for lunch today.”

Greenburg’s attention slides from Stiles to Erica, clearly not impressed with her flaring drama queen. “He has a job to do Erica.”

“Well, if I don’t get Stiles’ company for lunch today you might as well just go back and tell them that I’m done for the day. Absolutely, terribly, completely, horribly done.” She pauses, eyes narrowing as she glares Greenburg down, and Stiles can all but see his spine melting under the pressure. “Do you want to do that Greenburg? Do you want to stop filming today? Do you want to give the set that message?”

Not to be hokey, but Greenburg is matter of fact looking a little green around the edges as Erica piles on the questions until he breaks down completely and throws his hands up into the air. “Fine Erica. Stiles, do whatever she tells you to, just do not let her leave,” she says, eyes zeroing back in on Stiles. “She’s your responsibility.”

When the trailer door closes behind him Erica is grinning and Stiles feels a little ill, but not enough so that he’s not still planning on decimating the burger in front of him. At least spending lunch in the trailer means he’s not going to run into Derek.

“So then, where were we?” Erica ponders as she turns her back on the now closed door.

“Life,” Stiles murmurs around a mouth full of burger.

“Right,” Erica nods. “Well, my advice,” she continues, munching on a few fries, “is to find something you’re good at, and something you like. Like me. I like acting. I like sex. I’m good at both.” She waves her free arm, taking in the trailer, the set, the lot. “I’m getting paid to act and have sex. Perfect job.”

Another knock. Erica sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes. “Here. Naked. Go away.”

The door opens anyway and Stiles watches as Boyd steps in, dressed in a pair of sweats hanging precariously at his hips, lunch in hand.

“Boyd!” Erica calls, waving him over to the mini-couch along the opposite wall of the trailer than the table she and Stiles are seated at. “Come on in. Meet Stiles. He’s going to be Derek’s new assistant.”

Boyd glances Stiles over, snorts, and shakes his head as he takes a seat. “Yeah. I don’t think so.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stiles asks, fighting the urge to cross his arms indignantly.

From the couch, Boyd shrugs a shoulder. “Not being offensive. Just saying.”

Stiles throws his hands up so violently a few fries go flying down the trailer. “I’m not going to have sex with Derek Fucking Hale!” is loud enough that anyone within a decent radius of the trailer probably heard it, but Stiles doesn’t care at this point. Apparently everybody except for Derek Dense In The Head Hale knows exactly what he’s doing—or, attempting to do—and they’re all betting against him.

“Come on Boyd, look at him,” Erica coos, and when Stiles looks over at her he almost expects her to reach across the table and grab his cheeks. “He’s so determined! We need to support that kind of tenacity.”

Boyd rolls his eyes.

“Hey,” Stiles snaps, glaring across the few feet between him and the half-naked man, “Derek shoved me into a bathroom stall at Play Time and… I don’t know, propositioned me, and I got out of there Scott-free,” if he didn’t count getting a handful of Laura’s breast, which he doesn’t. “So don’t judge me.”

“Derek had you in a bathroom stall?” comes out slowly, word by stunned word, from Erica.

Carefully, Stiles turns to face her. “Yes?” Then, “Yeah. Yes.”

“At Play Time?” Boyd adds.

Stiles nods.

“And…” Erica squints at him, as though seeing him for the first time and realizing he has eyes over his scalp instead of hair. “You didn’t have sex with him?”

Glancing between the two, Stiles nods again.

Erica eyes are wide with shock and Boyd just looks impressed. After a few moments of silence he says, “I have to change my bet.”

Stiles nods rapidly until the words sink in. “You’re betting on this?”

Erica’s peel of laughter fills the trailer for the second time. “Oh honey, everybody is.”

Lunch with Erica and Boyd ends up being good clean fun, which is more than a bit ironic considering… everything. It’s also relaxing, and for forty-five minutes Stiles forgets about his job. Kind of. It’s difficult to completely forget when Erica’s nipples flash every few minutes and Boyd’s half-naked chiseled body shines with oil, but the conversation is good and they spend a fair amount of time gossiping. That, and Stiles gets good pointers on how to deal with Derek. Unfortunately they all follow one of two guidelines: one, hide, and two, take a lot of downers.

Unfortunately, the light air of lunch shrivels when he opens the door to Erica’s trailer and steps out in front of Derek on his way back to set. He’d freeze, if it weren’t for Erica’s hand on his shoulder pushing him down the rest of the stairs.

“Oh, Derek. Have a nice lunch?” Erica purrs, sliding her arm around Stiles’ neck and reeling him in until their bodies are flush. Flusher than Stiles has been with anything, that isn’t his clothes or bed, for an ungodly number of months.

Derek Bushy Eyebrows That Should Not Be That Sexy Hale, frozen in his tracks, glares. Despite having run into displeased Derek yesterday, it’s still startling. The fact that he’d been getting used to suave, aggressively flirty Derek is somewhat unnerving and Stiles is suffering a slight case of whiplash.

“Me? Well, it was a good lunch. Stiles and Boyd came and kept me company,” Erica continues smoothly, laughter in her voice. It’s highly suggestive and makes Stiles all too aware of the warm pressure of her breasts pressed against his arm. The warm flush of embarrassment that starts at his collar and slowly raises only makes it worse. 

Derek’s laser eyes flicker from Erica to the arm she has around Stiles’ neck. His scowl deepens. Maybe he just doesn’t like sloppy seconds.

Suddenly Stiles has the urge to step away from Erica, or make it clear that nothing actually happened. He goes as far as opening his mouth to say something, but then Erica starts laughing in honest, which breaks the tension enough for him to remember that he doesn’t want to have sex with Derek Greek Statue Come To Life Hale. If Derek is turned off by sloppy seconds, Stiles should be making himself the sloppiest second to ever run across his path.

“Come on Stiles honey. Drive me and Boyd back to set, won’t you?” Erica chuckles, before pressing her lips to Stiles’ ear, startling him enough to jump enough that he jostles himself out of her grasp, missing the vein that threatens to burst from Derek’s neck.

Thoroughly mortified at his life, he mutters, “Sure thing,” and pats himself down for the keys to the golf cart. When he finally finds them and looks up, Derek is nowhere to be seen and Erica and Boyd eye each other, smirking.

Glancing at him, Boyd says, “Definitely have to change my bet.” It’s the most approving thing he’s heard from Boyd all lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out my original writing! My apocalyptic romance story, _Metastasis_ , is currently being published in [Wayward Arrows](http://precariouspublications.com/wa-index.php?page=archive.php).


	6. Apologies: good manners, bad repercussions

Stiles is fiddling with a pile of extra scripts after lunch when he looks up to see Derek I Confuse People Sexually And Stiles Just Regularly Hale glaring at him—the kind of glare that comes with black flaming aura and a feeling of impending doom. It should be scary. It is scary. It makes Stiles’ stomach shrivel and drop and the back of his neck prickle with the feral need to flee, but he can’t, because Derek’s arms are glistening, his slacks are barely hanging off his ass, and he’s balls deep in Erica, whose blouse is open, revealing an askew black lace bra, perk breasts, and nipples slick from a recent encounter with Derek’s tongue.

The inner struggle of trying to not get hard and attempting to unparalyze himself and flee counteract each other and Stiles is left staring like an idiot, soul crumbling under the weight of Derek’s vicious stare. Heart stammering in his ears, Stiles jolts when the DP shouts, “Cut!” and watches as the man stomps out from behind his screen to start ranting. “What the hell is that? You look like you’re going to murder something. We don’t have time for this Derek. Get your head in the game.”

There might be more, but feeling returned to Stiles’ legs within the first two words, and then he’s across stage at the crafts table ripping open a bag of potato chips as loudly as possible. Filling his mouth with the tangy flavor of Ranch Doritos, he tries to distract himself with questions of whether or not Trent will let him have his old job back at Morning Delight and if being in debt for the next fifteen years is as bad as people make it out to be. Instead he ends up wondering exactly what he did to piss Derek off enough to look at him like that while, literally, in the middle of phenomenal sex with a phenomenally sexy woman. 

Thirty minutes later Stiles is switching out radio batteries when someone clears their throat behind him. The back of his neck breaks out in goosebumps and, listening to his instincts, he refuses to turn around.

It doesn’t help.

“Stiles,” Derek grinds out behind him. 

Glaring down at the radios, Stiles takes a breath. He can do this. If he’s going to be Derek’s assistant, he has to actually be able to face him. Face him and talk to him and be in the same vicinity as him and probably even be in the same room, alone, with him. If he can’t, he’s going to be out of a job whether he wants to be or not, and he’d really rather have his potentially unemployment be on his own terms. Taking a breath, he turns around and is confronted with Tiny Towel Derek. Of course. “Yes?”

“What were you doing with Erica and Boyd?” is as much accusation as question. It makes Stiles’ spine stiffen.

“What’s it matter to you what I do with Erica or Boyd?”

Derek stares him down for a few, agonizingly long seconds, before turning around and walking away. It’s not until he’s out of Stiles’ line of sight that he exhales the breath he’s been holding and mutters, “What the hell?” 

On the positive side, he thinks when he turns back to the radios, it might be the most neutral encounter he’s had with Derek to date, which is probably a positive thing. That, and the fact that he’s starting to become desensitized to Derek I Don’t Even Have A Cheat Day Hale’s perfect body, which is also a good thing. In fact, if all it takes is hanging out with Erica and Boyd to get Derek off his back, and his dick stops defying his brain and wanting super fun times with his boss and deal-breaker porn star, well, this job might not be the end of him after all. It could be fun. He could learn something. 

Well, he could make a dent in his student loan debt at least.

Then again, he could be wrong. It could be eight a.m. Wednesday and he could be bringing Derek his morning Earl Gray tea with a quarter of a cup of unsweetened vanilla almond milk and walk into Derek King Of Deceivers Hale’s trailer just to have the tea plucked out of his hand while his other is grabbed and he’s pulled inside. He could be pressed up against the wall of said trailer with the broad shouldered porn star he had a wet dream about last night (who featured as a barista at the Starbucks Stiles frequents each morning, and there could have been coffee and an apron and phenomenal sex in said dream). He could be threatening to pop a boner and be wheezing in an effort to keep thinking straight while said wet-dream-featuring porn star smirks down at him with hard, serious eyes and says, “I don’t like you hanging out with Erica and Boyd.”

It could take Stiles a full minute before he’s able to form the word, “What?”

“Lunch. Yesterday,” Derek says, inching in even closer, and Stiles can smell the minty freshness of his warm breath.

Stiles isn’t sure that explains anything, but speaking, despite it having been a single word, seems to have gotten his brain back on track—enough for him to remember that this is real life and not an extension of his amazing coffee-counter sex dream. Taking a breath, Stiles pulls his head back as far as he can, which isn’t far, considering there’s a wall behind him, and says, “That’s too bad, because what I do isn’t any of your business, Derek.”

Derek blinks, pulling back slightly, looking the same kind of bewildered he did in the bathroom stall at Play Time. His, “What?” almost makes Stiles amused.

Building up steam, Stiles brings a hand up to Derek’s chest and pushes with enough force to send him stumbling back a few steps as he straightens. “What I do, isn’t any of your business.” He repeats. “Also, this,” he gestures at the minimal space between them, and then bigger, to include the trailer and the situation, and sums up with a crisp, “No,” before stepping quickly around Derek and pushing his way out the door to freedom.

Derek, for whatever it says about the man, doesn’t follow him.

Thirty minutes later his phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s a text from Laura and just says: My office. It’s not the most positive message to get, but, then again, it’s not, ‘You're fired,’ which, he imagines, is how Laura would fire him. On the other than, maybe she’d want to witness the dying hope in his eyes as she says the words to his face, which, now that he thinks about it, is a lot more likely.

When he walks into the office Sarah looks up from behind the front desk and doesn’t even pause in her phone conversation as she winces and waves him through. Wincing is definitely not a good sign. Heaving a heavy breath and exhaling slowly, Stiles wipes his hands on his jeans and walks past Sarah’s desk and realizes he doesn’t actually know where he’s going. Luckily it doesn’t matter, there are only a few doors and they’re all labeled, the one at the end of the hall with the capital letters HALE etched into the frosted glass.

By the time he gets to the end of the albeit short hallway he has to wipe his hands again before he knocks on the door. He is one thousand percent sure he’s about to be fired when Laura shouts, “Get in here Stiles,” which he doesn’t comply with right away. Instead he stands outside the door, takes a series of quick breaths, amping himself up until he doesn’t feel like he might start begging to keep this job, which is just ludicrous insanity. When he opens the door he’s almost at ease with the fact that he’ll be going home unemployed.

“Close the door,” is the first thing Laura says, and as soon as he does, she looks up from the stacks of paper on her desk and settles him with a hard, flat stare that makes his heart palpitate sharply with how closely it mimics Derek’s from the day before.

Silence blankets the room. His palms begin to sweat again.

“Did you just have sex with my brother?”

Stiles almost deflates with his sigh of relief. This again. “No.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Laura props her elbows on her desk and leans forward. “Really? Because someone told me they saw you get pulled into his trailer and left a little…” she eyes him up and down, “frazzled.”

“Believe it or not, your brother is a frazzling experience, especially when denying him sex,” Stiles snorts.

For a moment it looks like she doesn’t believe him, and then she grins. “You very well may be the best investment I’ve ever made,” she says, leaning back in her chair and throwing her feet up onto her desk.

Stiles doesn’t even understand his own brain when he responds with, “Well, it’s only been two days.”

Laura laughs. “And you’re doing so well!”

“Really? People haven’t even made it two days before?” He wonders, aghast, as he wanders further into the office and takes a seat. Then again, when he thinks back to his dream and the first instinctual rush of sex that hit him when Derek pinned him against the wall, he realizes it’s not that far of a stretch to believe. “You could have saved yourself a load of trouble and just put asexuality as a requirement for the job, you know.”

Laura shrugs. “What’s the fun in that?”

Stiles stares across at her, and sighs as he drops his head into his hands. “You’re betting.”

Another rush of laughter. “Of course I’m betting. Hell, Sarah’s betting. Everybody’s betting.”

Stiles wondered if it would be possible to retrace his life and see where he went wrong. First guess would be when he chose to go to school in LA, but who knows, maybe it started before that. Pulling his head out of his hands, he watches Laura as her chuckling dies down. “How does Derek not know about all of this?”

Laura arches an eyebrow. “Apparently he’s too distracted flirting with you and frustrated with not getting anywhere to actually think properly.”

He can’t help but let out a bark of laughter, which dies slows as Laura continues staring at him and he realizes she isn’t joking. Honestly, he doesn’t know what to think about that. Probably nothing. Derek’s a porn star, he probably flirts as much as he breathes. Maybe more. Derek Hale’s existence is synonymous with flirting. Also, while pulling Stiles into his trailer might be flirting, death-glaring at him while filming sex… Stiles doesn’t know what that is, but it’s definitely not flirting.

“So, no sex?” Laura asks again, and it’s only then that Stiles realizes an awkward length of silence has passed.

Rolling his eyes and nodding, he assures, “No sex.”

She nods, says, “Okay,” and waves him on his way.

And that’s his week. Or, at least, it sets the tone for his week, which consists of keeping a vigil eye out in order to avoid Derek, though it’s oddly not that difficult because after the trailer shut-down Derek Lurker Hale appears to be lurking less than usual. There’s dodging set, of course, because the two other times he forgets on Tuesday result in vicious glaring, cutting the current take, and a pissed off DP each time. Lunches are spent with Erica and Boyd, who both don enough clothing that Stiles isn’t mortified, embarrassed, or mortifyingly embarrassingly distracted. Evenings are a few exchanged texts with Scott, frozen pizza or order for pick-up Thai, and convincing conversations with himself that tonight- tonight will be the night he does not dream of sex with Derek Glares At Stiles During Filming Porn Sex Hale.

“So, why no sex with Derek?” Erica asks during lunch on Friday, instantly getting Boyd’s attention and nearly making Stiles inhale the fry he’s attempting to eat.

He glares at her, not that it fazes her, and he can feel the pressure of Boyd’s interested gaze. It’s a loosing battle. He knows it. Worst of all, they know it. “Firstly,” he breaks down, sighing, “He’s a jerk. At least to me. He thinks he’s God’s sex-gift to the world.” Across from him, Erica laughs and Boyd doesn’t attempt to hide his grin. “Secondly, he works in porn.”

Erica’s laughing cuts short and Boyd’s smile disintegrates, and Stiles waves his hands in an attempt to erase what he just said.

“No. I mean. I’m not saying porn is bad. It’s just…” he flounders for a moment, trying to get the right words to un-foot-in-his-mouth. “It’s a personal thing. I’m not comfortable with the idea of being with someone who has sex with a bunch of other people. I’m not saying you shouldn’t work in porn, or that you’re making a bad decision, I just don’t want-”

“Stiles,” Erica cuts him off, a soft smile playing on her lips, “it’s okay, we get it.”

“You’re an emotional little flower who wants to be his lover’s one and only,” Boyd smirks from the couch.

Stiles rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything, because Boyd is right. Well, half right. It’s that, and the fact that Stiles doesn’t particularly like having sex outside of relationships, and he’d like his partner to feel the same. He gets attached to people, and getting attached to a whole someone who is only momentarily attached to your nether parts doesn’t end well. He knows. From experience. Experience he doesn’t want to have again. 

“Anyway,” Erica says, waving a hand in the air as though waving away the previous conversation, “promise you’ll still have lunch with us even when you’re high and mighty as Derek’s personal assistant.”

Stiles laughs around a handful of fries. “Yeah. High and mighty. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be answering a lot of phone calls and… I don’t know- fan-mail? Laura hasn’t even told me what being Derek’s personal assistant means.”

The fact that Boyd laughs doesn’t nothing but make Stiles instantly and terrifyingly nervous. “It means you’re basically his mom, so Laura doesn’t have to be.”

Wide-eyed, Stiles hollowly asks, “What?”

“Don’t be so dramatic Boyd,” Erica admonishes. “You’re his… life manager slash… bitch? But not sexually.” 

Glaring at the two flatly, Stiles says, “I’m quitting.”

“By fucking Derek, or the regular way?” Boyd wonders, earning a grape in the face from Erica.

“Don’t be overdramatic. It’ll be fine Stiles. You’ll make sure he’s where he needs to be when he needs to be there and help him keep his appointments and life in order once he’s done filming and takes control of the office for the few months Laura goes back to the set.”

“Laura’s not going to be in the office?” The idea horrifies him more than a little, but doesn’t seem to bother Erica or Boyd who just look at him as though he’s stupid. 

“You don’t know anything about Howling Hale’s production, do you?” Boyd asks, this time catching the thrown grape in his mouth.

“They switch off,” Erica explains. “When Derek’s filming, Laura runs the business. When Laura’s filming, Derek runs the business. Except he normally runs himself into the ground too, because none of his assistants do their job since all they want to do is fuck him, and they end up just making his life more difficult than it needs to be. So, you know, Laura’s actually kind of head over heels in love with you for not having a boner for her brother.”

Stiles almost blurts out something about never having said he didn’t have boner for Derek, but doesn’t, though it’s a near thing. He is, however, pleased with the idea of working with Derek while he’s not filming. Though that’s mostly because he doesn’t want to be forced to be around a half naked and aggressively flirting boss all day. A fully clothed and aggressively flirting boss is something else entirely.

“But, you still haven’t answered me,” Erica segues. “About lunch.”

Chuckling, Stiles nods. “As long as I have the time, I promise to have lunch with you.”

Neither of them look all that satisfied with the answer, but they nod anyway. 

At the end of the day when the final scene’s just been wrapped up, Stiles is hanging around crafties with a diet Pepsi and a bag of Funions and enjoying the controlled chaos that means Greenburg taking care of business and Stiles fading into the background, when a shadow falls over him. With how little interaction he’s had with Derek over the last few days (meaning none at all, actually) when he turns around to find the man in question a few feet away, watching him, he starts to the point a number of Funions fly out of the bag in his hand. “Derek,” he greets as he attempts to look around for someone, anyone, to help him escape.

Maybe he’s not as ready for Monday’s job change as he’d been leading himself to believe.

“Stiles,” Derek starts, and it’s strange, because he hasn’t moved. Derek’s just standing there, three feet away, hands… in the pockets of a pair of basketball shorts he’s wearing, and Stiles almost has an aneurism seeing that. Derek. On set. In pants, of any fashion. Somehow it makes him even more uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as Derek looks, which, Stiles tells himself, is in no way endearing. 

Silent seconds tick by, at first just a pause, and then a somewhat awkward pause, and then Stiles fidgets and asks, “Need something?”

Taking a breath, Derek says, “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” It’s so unexpected Stiles is half convinced he didn’t hear the words correctly, except he can’t ask Derek to repeat himself because he’s already turned around and is walking away.

What Stiles does know, however, is that this is bad and he is in trouble, because Derek I’m A Giant Ass Hole Hale was easy to dislike, but Derek Apologizes For Being An Ass Hole And Runs Away Hale is something else completely. That Derek is the kind of person that makes Stiles feel bad for calling him a jerk in front of Erica and Boyd. That Derek makes Stiles’ heart do some weird kind of flutter kick that is also known as a red alert for danger of the emotional kind.

Later that night, however, over a pint of ice cream, three boxes of half-empty Chinese food, and a fierce game of Worms: Revolution, Stiles reminds himself that Derek Howling Hale is a porn star. The reminder doesn’t quite have the full affect it should, a fact that Stiles drowns in beer and another bite of ice cream. He doesn’t want to have sex with Derek, that’s for sure. Well, not in the way Derek’s been pushing, and not with porn star Derek. Frowning at the TV, Stiles throws the Xbox remote across the room, because his heart is trying to convince him that non-porn star Derek, paper-pusher, production company owner and producer Derek is a whole other ball game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been enjoying Morning Delight, please try my original writing! I have an apocalyptic romance story, Metastasis, currently being published in the online magazine [Wayward Arrows](http://precariouspublications.com/index.php).


	7. Hot Stuff: not in the way you think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to betas: [NotEnoughGatorade](http://notenoughgatorade.tumblr.com), [InessentialCandy](http://inessentialcandy.tumblr.com), and [Divvata](http://divvata.tumblr.com). You were all so great and really helped me pull this come-back chapter together by making me confident in giving this story the kick in the ass its needed. Thanks so much!

“What do you mean extended?”

“Well,” Francis sighs—Laura’s supposedly out running an errand, unable to explain this to him herself, but Stiles is pretty sure she’s just on the other side with her ear pressed against the door waiting for his cries of anguish, “Apparently someone in post managed to lose a large portion of footage.”

“Large portion,” Stiles repeats in a stunned daze, hoping he’s being Punk’d: praying he’s being Punk’d.

Francis’ precisely plucked eyebrows raise. “Yes,” he confirms, not a hint of humor. “So they’re extending the shoot.”

Somehow Stiles keeps the desperate Brave Heart of ‘no’ locked away with willpower he’s never known he’s had. His “How long?” sounds choked even to his own ears, and from the pinched expression on Francis’ face, it does to anyone and everyone else as well. It’s a good thing it’s just Francis here then.

“Three weeks, possibly two.”

A strangled noise slides its way out of his throat. It sounds like the death cry of a small animal on National Geographic, which is how Stiles feels, so it’s fitting. Today was supposed to be the end. Today is supposed to be the beginning of a whole new work life that does not involve semi-naked Derek walking around in front of his eyes, or semi-naked Derek approaching him, or semi-naked Derek talking to him, or semi-naked Derek flirting with him, or fully-naked Derek having sex with people in front of him, or fully-naked Derek giving him dirty looks while having sex with people in front of him. Today is supposed to be the first day of working in an office and dealing with Professional Derek. He had spent all weekend mentally preparing himself for Professional Derek.

“It’s not nearly as bad as it sounds though. Laura is in the middle of finalizing a business arrangement and the delay means that she won’t be rushed out just yet. She’ll stay in the office for a week and then Derek will take over.”

Stiles stares. “What a coincidence,” comes out almost of its own accord. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s planning an accident to befall the woman who hired him who, he is coming to realize all too late, is not just an evil woman, but the Devil—with a big D.

“You should be a little more grateful yourself,” Francis huffs.

He almost laughs. “Why?”

Raising a hand to push his fake glasses further up his nose from where they had slipped, Francis settles him with a look that pulls no punches in expressing his opinion of Stiles’ intelligence. “Laura’s pulling you from set for the week to have me train you. Or,” critical eyes rake over him from head to foot, “do my best.”

Stiles doesn’t have time to come up with a response to that. The moment he opens his mouth, a sharp “No” cuts through the air from the direction of the entrance. It’s a familiar voice, though Stiles is normally on a much more sultry end of it. It would be a stretch to pinpoint a time he’s ever heard Derek sound so angry before.

Exchanging a look with Francis, who looks impossibly desperate to get closer to the conversation, Stiles remains frozen where he is. From the look on his face, Francis is irritated that his own elite sense of propriety requires he do the same. Not that it matters, it’s only a couple tens of feet—they can hear just fine.

“I don’t really care what you have to say,” Laura bites back, not nearly as loud as her brother, but they’re inside now, the door clicking shut behind them. Has the front door always closed so loudly? “Morning, Sarah.”

A momentary pause, and then, “Stiles is in with Francis.”

“Punctuality, a great quality in an assistant,” Laura purrs. It’s no stretch to imagine the sharp smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “More than I can say for _someone_ half the time.”

“I’m plenty punctual,” Derek snarls.

A flippant huff and then, “Please. When you’re on set. When you’re in the office your life inevitably goes to shit. Probably because you’ve never had a decent assistant.”

Stiles can’t seem to control his body; as Laura’s voice grows louder, he turns around, and watches the siblings as they round the corner and walk into the reception a moment later.

Laura’s lips, so dark her lipstick looks more black than purple, spread into an even wider grin—he is, in no way, fooled by the apparent warmth of the smile. “Good morning Stiles. Francis.” Slapping Derek on the chest with the back of her knuckles she says, “Stop glaring.”

Which he is: eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, looking angrier than he has ever been on set. A not so small part of Stiles pleads for him to just run. He’s fast, he’s agile, he’s somewhat sure he can slip past the two of them and be out the door and nearly out of the city before Laura devises some reason to call the police and drag him back to this Hell.

In the background he hears Francis say, “Good morning Laura. Derek,” followed by an awkward pause.

“Morning,” he wheezes out as though someone’s punched him in the stomach.

Laura’s eyes gleam. Derek’s left brow twitches. Stiles is a fairly certain that he needs an adult. Luckily the pair continue on their way into Laura’s office. Unluckily, Stiles hears Laura chuckle out, “And just think, you’ll get him all to yourself,” before the doors close behind them.

“Awkward much?” Francis mutters from his seat.

Whirling around, Stiles nods, “Seriously.”

“I meant _you_.”

Stiles excuses himself to go get a coffee from the little lounge area with the kitchenette that’s so small all it really fits is a max of two very friendly people grabbing something from either the fridge, microwave, or Keurig. Filling a mug with three Keurig’s on the smallest setting is a semi-conscious effort to experiment with whether or not he can OD on caffeine and spend the next two to three weeks in the hospital. Instead what he gets is walking out of the lounge and being nearly bulldozed to death by a Derek I Fast Walk Marathons Faster Than You Run Them Hale.

The immediate sensation is impact, followed by searing hot liquid drenching his chest, barely overshadowed by the wrong-angled crash into the ground that has his ass panging dully in the shadow of the burn. “Oh Jesus fucking shit,” is one amongst the multitude of MPAA R rated language spilling out of his mouth as he scrambles up just enough to try to pull his scorching shirt from his chest, waving it to cool himself off and not minding coffee drops that go flying.

“What the-”

A hand grabs him by the bicep and lifts him to his feet. Derek’s voice, which on any other occasion that doesn’t involve the distracting possibility of third degree burns, would be too close, says, “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”

“Take him to medical.”

“I know where to take him.”

Shirt cooling off quick, Stiles looks down the neck at his angry red chest. It’s painful, but there aren’t any blisters, yet, and that has to be a good thing.

“Come on, let’s get you looked at.”

Looking up finds Derek close. As in, still has his hand gripped around Stiles’ bicep: close.  A close that is entirely not okay since he is relatively sure there is no longer an immediate danger of third degree burns.  Scowling registers second. Close and scowling. Stiles says, “I’m fine,” and is positive that his mouth has been open and doing the fish-motion for at least a few seconds before the words came out.

Then again, maybe not, because Derek’s still scowling and doesn’t seem masochistically amused. “Then we’ll get someone to officially tell us that.”

“I can drive myself,” Stiles tries, wiggling in a vain attempt to free himself.

Eyes flicking to where his hand is wrapped around Stiles’ arm, Derek’s fingers slowly uncurl and release him. “Do you even know where you’d be going?”

Infuriatingly enough, he has to admit, “No.”

 

Derek drives the golf cart and Stiles sits, becoming increasingly cold even in the warm Los Angeles summer due to his sopping shirt and pants drenched just enough to make it look like he’d failed at holding in the biggest pee in history. They go all of two buildings, a drive of about twenty-three seconds, which makes Stiles feel ridiculous for having driven. Worse yet, is the way Derek doesn’t just drop him off to his own devices, but follows him in through the door that reads “Medical Office” with a red cross above it.

There’s a front desk and chairs that don’t look quite as comfortable as the lobby of the production offices but comfortable nonetheless. The man behind the desk looks up from a magazine he’s browsing, and then his eyes go wide. “Mr. Hale. Did something happen?”

“Coffee accident,” Derek says, sounding too much like a normal person for Stiles’ liking. “Can someone take a look at him?”

A hand on his back that’s almost as hot as his still throbbing chest pushes him forward gently and Stiles takes a few stumbling steps toward the man at the counter. Waving, he says, “Hey.”

Glancing from Stiles to Derek and back, the man nods and comes around the side of the desk. “Let’s take a look.”

Guided down the hall, he can feel the moment Derek’s eyes are no longer latched to his back, and breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

“So, what happened?”

“Just spilled coffee on myself.”

The man glances back over his shoulder, eyes bright and probably illegal in some countries—like China. No chewing gum or having vibrantly sexy eyes. “Really?”

“Really,” Stiles replies, confused at the response or maybe just confused, the man looks like he should be on set with Erica, Boyd, Derek, and the rest of them. Luckily, instead of saying that, he just asks, “Why?”

A shrug as they stop at a door that opens on a small medical room, cot of butcher paper and everything, “It’s a little odd to see one of the Hale siblings escorting anyone anywhere. Normally it’s the other way around. Go ahead and take off your shirt before you get up on the table,” he glances back at Stiles, “Pants too.”

“Pants?”

“If Derek Hale drove you over here himself, there’s no way I’m not fully clearing you before I give you back.”

Stiles boggles at the man. “Give me back?” He thinks he may need a CAT scan as well. Never in his life has he had to repeat so many words in order to figure out what’s going on around him.

“Come on, I was a paramedic for years. No reason to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Stiles huffs as he pulls his shirt off and immediately wishes he was more careful when he gets a face full of cold, wet, coffee-filled fabric. When he wrestles his way out of it, the man—and Stiles just now sees a nametag pinned to his shirt: Parrish—is holding out a plastic bag. Stiles hesitates. “What’ll I wear?”

Parrish smiles, and it’s the friendliest smile—lacking in mirth, amusement, lust, or lechery—aside from Scott’s that he’s seen in awhile. “We have spares. Just sweats and t-shirts, but they’ll get your through the day at least.”

Properly assured, Stiles dumps the shirt in the waiting bag before going for his pants, which follow quickly after. Unless this is some grand scheme set up by Laura or Erica and Boyd, he’s pretty sure Parrish is a proper medical professional and not some stripper hired as part of an all too elaborate Monday joke. He’s right, and he has nothing to fear. Parrish gives him a proper inspection, prodding a few tender areas of his red chest and asks a few medical based questions before deeming him safe and healthy.

“You’re lucky. I’m surprised it isn’t worse.” Parrish says, as he steps back. “I’m going to give you some painkillers for today. You’ll also want to use lotion, something with aloe in it would be best. I might have something you can use for the time being, travel-sized. Let me go grab them and some clothes.”

Pulling out his phone, Stiles leans over to grab some tissues and wipes the dampness off as he presses the Home button with a wince. Breathing an audible sigh of relief when the screen blinks awake, he shoots a text off to Erica.

_Why was I not informed of this hot medic?_

The response is almost immediate. _Are you alright?!_

_Fine. Coffee accident. But seriously, this Parrish guy._

_Psh, Parrish. Pretty sure he’s straight._

Stiles rolls his eyes. Of course. The one person in this Hell he calls employment who might be able to take his mind off the one other person he is, under no circumstances, allowed to have sex with, is straight.

The door opens and he immediately locks the phone as Parrish steps in with a bright smile that makes Stiles think of a puppy returning the first stick thrown for him. “Take these,” Parrish orders, handing over two packets of Aleve and a mini bottle of water. “Then you can use this,” a travel-sized lotion clicks on the counter by the tissue and Stiles nearly chokes on the pills he’s trying to swallow. “And finish off with some fresh clothes.” The folded pile of clothes goes on the cot next to him. “When you’re done, your driver’s waiting for you.”

It’s a good thing he’s already capped the water. “Derek’s still here?”

Smiling in a way that only goes to show that Parrish has no clue of the horrors of Stiles’ life, he nods.

“Is there a back door out of here?”

Parrish laughs, and despite how attractive he is, Stiles wants to strangle him while shouting that this is neither a joke nor a drill. “I’m not getting in the middle of this. If he’s waiting for you, you’re getting a ride.” Then, with a, “Get dressed,” he steps out of the room.

Get dressed, he does, but at an agonizingly slow pace that he is sure will force Derek to head out to set lest leave everyone waiting on him. Then again, he’d forgotten about the fact that Derek is a Hale, of the Howling Hales, as in: owner of everything as far as the smells of sweat, sex, and come waft. He can make anyone wait for anything for however long he likes. In the end, it means Derek’s waiting, though not contently or patiently, when Stiles finally emerges from the back.

Looking up, one of Derek’s thick eyebrow crawls upward.

Stiles glances down at himself. Black sweats and a gray crew neck t-shirt. It looks a lot like he ran out of clothes and got to a Target with fifteen dollars in his pocket before a laundry mat.

A few moments pass of Derek staring at him, wearing an expression Stiles isn’t familiar with and thus makes him a smidge nervous. Finally, with a shake of his head, Derek pushes himself to his feet and says, “Let’s get you something decent to wear,” voice abnormally rough.

Sparing a second, Stiles glances over at Parrish, hunched over paperwork behind the desk, to say, “Thanks for the help.”

It’s a wonder half the people on lot aren’t crammed into the medical office with a man like that waiting in the doctor’s office. Parrish looks up, smiling brightly. “Not a problem. Maybe we’ll run into each other again. …Without the medical emergency.”

Stiles doesn’t get to say anything else because Derek grabs him by the wrist and pulls him, hurriedly if not gently, out the door. “You wasted enough time in there. I’m late as it is.”

“You can go ahead and go. I’ll just walk back.”

Derek shoot him a look. “You’re not working dressed like that.”

Stiles can’t even play stupid enough to be controversial about the statement, so they end up at another building altogether with _Whoredrobe_ in large, bold lettering on the outside, and massive glass windows lined displaying racks of clothes. Realizing the potential to wind up in something far more ludicrous than sweats and a t-shirt, especially since the hard scowl that Derek initially walked into Laura’s office with hasn’t completely faded, Stiles offers. “I could just go home and come back.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” is Derek’s undisputable response.

They’re a dozen yards through the front door when a woman pops out of one of the large side rooms labeled: US Historical, and, with a questioning look, asks, “Ah, Derek, something I can do for you?”

“Modern?”

A quizzical pinch of the lips, she says, “This way. Looking for something particular?” She side-eyes Stiles and his own wardrobe in fierce disapproval.

“Something that’ll fit him,” Derek offers.

Stiles follows, unable to do much else, as they continue down the hall before turning into another large room labeled Contemporary. Immediately the woman sets to work, and it’s equal parts surprising and embarrassing when she pulls out a pair of pants and Derek says, “Not those.”

Just Christ. Head bowed to hide the heat he feels washing up his neck, Stiles clenches his teeth.

“No.”

His head starts to ache as his teeth grind.

“Yes.”

“Derek.” Head snapping up, he sees Derek already looking back at him. “I am perfectly capable of picking my own clothes.”

“You’re my assistant, I’ll dress you the way I want,” Derek retorts before turning back around, cocking his head ever so slightly, and nodding to something else that’s being offered for inspection.

Swearing on his original VHS trilogy of Star Wars, Stiles promises himself that revenge will come, in time, and momentarily shuts up. In the end, it’s all the more irritating when he’s looking at himself in the mirror in wing tipped shoes, skinny jeans, pale green button up and dark blue waistcoat. A waistcoat, of all the things for Derek to do to him, and he can’t be half as furious as he wants to be because—fuck, he looks good. Good enough that the last thing he wants to do is walk out of the dressing room because he knows, _knows_ , Derek’s scowl will dissipate just to transform into a smug, self-satisfied smirk.

“Stiles.”

It’s already there, in his voice.

With a deep breath, Stiles braces himself, pushes the curtains aside, and walks out.

Sure enough, Derek’s lips are already curved into a smirk that’s part smug, part self-satisfied, and part hunger that makes Stiles even more aware of exactly how tight his borrowed jeans are.

“Well, you clean up nicely,” the wardrobe woman, Cynthia, if Stiles heard Derek correctly early, says, almost as pleased with herself as Derek.

“Quite,” Derek rumbles, and Stiles definitely does not have to suppress a shudder at that.

“Fantastic,” Stiles mutters. Turning around he grabs his things and shoves them in the pockets of his borrowed jeans, unfortunately, they cleave to him so tight his phone and keys have to go in his other back pocket and he’s left with the mini-lotion from Parrish in hand. “Now, what was that about already being late?”

When he turns back, Derek has an eyebrow raised.

“I let you play dress-up. Think it’s time to actually go to work,” he says, sounding a hell of a lot more confident than he feels. Or not, and he wonders if maybe he should get a therapist to talk about the fact that he feels more at ease around Derek Will Be The Best Sex Of My Life In Exchange For My Job Hale when said man is looking at him like prey. “I’ll drive.”

“Sure,” Derek shrugs, handing over the key to the golf cart easily, which feels a little odd until they’re driving across the lot and Stiles has to keep from squirming under the penetrating, constant stare of the man beside him.

“Your stop,” is a breathy heft of words that makes Stiles too aware of his dry mouth and throbbing chest.

Movement catches in the corner of his eye as Derek climbs out of the golf cart. “Thanks for the ride.”

The words come with a knock of reality strong enough for Stiles to look away from the road. “Sorry. I should be thanking you,” he says, a little ashamed he hasn’t said it already. Whatever he thinks of Derek or his intentions, it’s no reason to fail basic manners and etiquette.

“Least I could do. It was my fault anyway,” Derek replies with a smile. Not a smirk or a lewd grin, but a genuine smile that makes Stiles’ heart thud heavily and realize he may be in far more trouble than he initially thought. With a pat on the top of the golf cart, Derek turns around and walks away. After a second, Stiles drives himself back to the production offices.

For the week, Francis takes him over the ins and outs of being a personal assistant to a Hale—keeping calendars, screening and taking calls, recording messages, top twenty most important people to know, second twenty most important people, top five people to instantly hang up on. He takes notes at the beginning before Francis finally shows him a typed document with all the basics (Derek went through too many assistants for there not to be). Besides the steep learning curve, which Stiles doesn’t mind, the job comes with a set of office keys, phone, and credit card.

He barely sees Derek during the week. Francis is a strict mentor and, upon realizing Stiles’ intelligence surpasses his original assumptions, starts giving him advice that goes beyond the basics to things that Stiles can identify will help him not just do the job, but do it well. It’s not until the next Monday, chest healed with the exception of the dry, flaking skin that itches and drives him to the restroom multiple times a day to lotion and scowl at, when he is proven correct.

Showing up an hour early is mostly due to nervous anxiety, and it’s likely that the two cups of coffee so far haven’t helped, but coffee is his morning ritual and it didn’t seem like the day to stop. He’s just managed to convince himself that he’s ready, that this is a change of pace that’s going to be for the better, when Derek rounds the corner and Stiles’ whole body freezes. Derek Paper-Pusher Office-Running Production Company-Owning Hale is a thousand times worse than Derek Glistening And Ready To Fuck Porn Star Hale.

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 _is_ written and currently going through the beta/revision process. It will likely be posted mid/late December.


	8. Pretty Woman: a great movie but definitely not an acceptable way of life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to betas: [NotEnoughGatorade](http://notenoughgatorade.tumblr.com)!

“I want to quit.”

Scoffing, Erica hands him an already unpeeled, half-eaten chocolate bar. He doesn’t care. Snatching it, he takes a large, cynical bite and collapses into the chair in the corner that had become his during lunches while he was still on set. “No you don’t.”

“Yes I do,” he says around a mouthful of chocolate. Delicious, of course, it’s probably a twenty-dollar candy.

The door opens as he’s taking his second bite and Boyd slips in, lips quirked. “He returns.” Then, off Stiles’ dower glare and Erica’s already rolling eyes, settles himself on the couch. “What’s up?”

“I’m quitting.”

“He’s not quitting,” to Boyd. “You’re not quitting,” to Stiles. “Why is this even coming up now? You made it through an entire week on set without giving in to Derek’s hard-on for you. You made it through the tough part.”

Stiles glowers. “Have you seen him in a suit?”

“Oh shit, you think he’s hot,” Boyd murmurs from the couch, and it’s the first time Stiles realizes how well he did disguising that fact in his nervous anger over how he was being treated and the resentment over the entire lot knowing about his ordeal and thinking he was too weak to not have sex with someone—even if that someone was Derek Hale.

Stiles throws his arms into the air. “Of course I think he’s hot. It’s Derek Fucking Hale!”

Exchanging looks with Erica, Boyd just shrugs. “Then fuck him already and be done with it.”

“I’m not going to have sex with him,” Stiles insists, though not quite as vehemently as in the past. He’s getting tired of repeating himself.

“Because he’s a porn star,” Erica supplies.

A nod. “And I need this job,” Stiles adds, tacking on a loud sigh of resignation. “I got my first paycheck last Friday and—shit. I might be able to pay off my college loans before I have kids. I mean, if I have kids. You know? I’m not going back to working hourly selling dildos to people more inspired than I am for a one-night stand,” he rants, frown pulling at the corners of his lips. Though, if he’s serious with himself, he’s not having a one-night stand period. The last time he did a one-night stand he got horribly depressed and moody for a week after because he’d had some idiotically romantic notion that he’d get a call back and invited on a date and it would be the start of something.

One of the things that have made Scott such a good friend is for not mercilessly giving Stiles shit over his insane ability to become attached with very little provocation, even though it has been well within his rights, especially with all that shit Stiles gives him.

“What if it wasn’t a one-night stand?” Erica asks.

Stiles raises an eyebrow and Boyd laughs out loud. “Jesus, Erica. You know Derek just likes the chase. He’s like a… dolphin.”

It’s Erica’s turn to raise eyebrows along with Stiles. “A dolphin?”

“Yeah. You know, killing for fun,” to which Stiles finds himself equally impressed with Boyd’s ability to reference random facts and ashamed at the realization that he may have been underrating his friends’ intelligence due to their occupation. “Except, in Derek’s case, it’s sex. Sex for fun. He’s not a relationship person. I mean, when’s the last time you saw Derek in a relationship?”

A long silence fills the space after the question as Erica clearly considers, and then considers some more. “Jennifer?”

Boyd nods. “Yeah, and that was three years ago. And they only dated for… a couple of months.”

“Then again,” Erica interjects, “they only really broke up because Jennifer was accused of embezzlement.”

“Not just accused. She still has two more years.”

“Wait,” Stiles interjects, it’s a lot of information to take in at once and he wants to make sure he’s getting it right. “Derek’s last girlfriend went to jail for embezzling money? _That’s_ what ended their relationship?”

As though having forgotten he was there, the two turn on him. “Yeah. Actually, Derek’s testimony helped put her away.”

He says, “Holy shit,” and can’t help but think Derek might have a good reason for not wanting to date anybody. Then again, “Wait, it wasn’t Hale money, was it?”

Boyd shakes his head. “No. She worked for some publishing company that makes school textbooks. But, the point is, Erica’s being an idiot. Derek doesn’t do relationships. Besides,” he looks at Stiles, serious and sobering, “would _you_ date him if you had the chance?”

Stiles’ brows knit together and his nose wrinkles instinctively and Boyd nods and starts speaking before Stiles really has time to think it through.

“See. It doesn’t matter. You’ve said it yourself, the porn thing is a big turn off, and that’s totally understandable. Besides, it’s no secret that Derek’s kind of an asshole, the only reason anybody remembers anything nice he does is because it’s so rare. Yeah, he’s hot, he’s good in bed, but there’s no reason to get all flustered about the guy in a suit because it doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

Grabbing the chocolate out of Stiles’ hand, Erica takes a bite and hands it back. “Way to be a stick in the mud, Boyd.”

“Just being realistic.”

As much as Boyd and Erica seem to take an awful amount of amusement and glee from his tumultuous occupational hazards, they’re good people and good friends. Taking another bite of chocolate, Stiles nods to himself. Boyd is perfectly right. Derek may be pants-dropping hot in his jeans that cost as much as Stiles’ car insurance payments, shirt that cost twice as much, and sports coat, but Derek being hot has never been the issue, everything that comes _along_ with Derek being hot is the issue.

“Anyway, you don’t have to worry about it right away,” Erica assures, leaning back in her chair and throwing her feet up on the couch in Boyd’s lap.

Stiles eyes her. “Why?”

“Because he’s still on set for the next two weeks. God, I hope this isn’t the kind of assistant you’re going to be. You’ll be just as bad as the others, and you’re not even recovering from having Derek’s dick up your ass.”

Stiles opens his mouth to retort, gets an all too vivid image of Derek leaning him over in a dark corner of the studio to fuck him, and stutters through, “Right. Of course. Duh.” When Erica and Boyd exchange twin smirks, he remarks with an eloquent, “Shut up.” The reminder brings absolutely no relief. “I should probably get back to the office. I’m supposed to bring Derek his lunch,” Stiles supplies, reaching down to pick up said bagged salad from the ground.

“I hope the days of you ignoring us are over,” Erica warns as she holds out her arms and waits for him to haul her to her feet.

“I wasn’t ignoring you, I was being trained, by Francis.”

Erica sneers. “Francis.”

“Yeah. Exactly. So, not my fault.”

“Keep in mind it’s also going to be the last time you get to see Derek naked for at least a few months,” Boyd adds, not moving from the couch.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Somehow I’m not so sorry about that.” He has enough images of Derek Resurrector Of Wet Dreams Hale to last a lifetime. In fact, Stiles hasn’t touched his porn folder on his laptop once since starting work for the Hales but has gotten off more in the past few weeks than he had in the previous few months combined. He tries not to think about what that means too much. There’s probably enough Naked Derek to last him a few years, at least, combined with Real Life Fucking Derek and it’s amazing he can still touch himself.

Erica gives him a quick hug, along with a, “Good luck,” and a slap on the ass that’s hard enough to sting as he heads out of the trailer.

He’s nearly back to the production offices when he rounds a corner to get a flash of another golf cart coming hurtling toward him as fast as the thing can go—which, as Stiles knows all too well, is horrendously fast. Unfortunately, their breaking and turning don’t measure up to their speed, which means he’s slowed down a fraction and is turned just enough to be perpendicular when the other cart crashes straight into him. Despite his white-knuckled grip on the little steering wheel, he’s ripped away from it with ease, experiences a momentary sensation of weightlessness, and then the sharp, painful end to that sensation as he hits the ground hard and rolls to a slow stop.

“Oh my God! Oh my God.”

With a grunt, Stiles rolls onto his back and blinks up at the blue sky that is blotted out seconds later by the face of an Asian angel with dark, soft curling hair and wide, horrified eyes. “Are you alright? Oh God, I _hit_ you.”

A few heartbeats and Stiles gets his breath back enough to say, “Yeah, you did,” because sarcasm has always been his reflexive response to pain. Now it just makes the girl’s face pinch in anguish and he has to roll his eyes and say, “I’m fine,” while trying to sound fine because he feels a little like an ass.

“Are you sure? You look…” she glances him over, expression unreadable except for the shock-and-awe of having just almost killed a person. “Are you sure?” she repeats.

Either he looks really bad, or she’s as confused as he is. “Yeah,” is a groan of a word as he pushes himself to his elbows slowly, and then to a sitting position, wincing only slightly at the sharp twinge behind his left shoulder. “You know, you should really be more careful around those turns. Don’t know when someone else is coming.”

“I know. I know. I’m so sorry. I’m just… I was in a hurry.”

A hurry to kill someone, maybe, but Stiles just nods and starts to climb to his feet, grateful when she clambers up first to help him. “I’ll drive you to medical,” she says as he gets his feet under him.

He’s throbbing, and sure there’ll be some bruises here and there, but Stiles is pretty sure that he’s absolutely fine. He starts to say, “No, I think-” and then remembers Parrish’s bright eyes and friendly smile, and while the man may be straight, well, that doesn’t mean Stiles can’t try to drown out his confused, frustrated agony over his conflicting desires to bone Derek while simultaneously really, really _not_ wanting to bone Derek, with the pretty face of someone else. So instead, he nods slowly. “Yeah.”

By the time they pull up to the medical office Stiles knows the girl who hit him is named Kira Yukimura and that she’s on the lot for a week working on the same film as Scott, and Stiles isn’t even surprised when she smiles at the name in a way that makes him think Scott’s got some problems headed his way if Allison has half a wit about her. Or, hell, maybe his best friend is into the whole threesome thing now, and when he gets to wondering about that he’s feeling a little depressed when he tells Kira to just drop him off because, damn, he hasn’t talked to Scott in person in almost two weeks and he thinks he might not need a therapist as much as he just needs his best friend.

With a final assurance that he’s not going to keel over and pass out, Kira peels away, apparently having not learned the slightest lesson from nearly slaughtering a man minutes previously. Shaking his tender head slowly, he makes his way up the few stairs to the door and is happy to push through with thoughts of Advil and ice-packs swimming through his head.

A soft sound that he’d been too distracted by Derek’s presence to notice the last time he came chimes through the room as he pushes in and Parrish says, “Good afternoon, what can- Stiles?” as he looks up, smile fading into a furrowed look of curiosity and then concern as he gets up and makes his way across the room. “You alright?”

“Eh,” Stiles mutters, “I’ve been better.”

“Another fight with a cup of coffee?”

“More like a golf cart.”

Now in front of him, Parrish reaches up to tilt his head back and then side-to-side, frowning. “Seriously?” His thumb presses Stiles’ cheek and he winces a bit. A bruise he didn’t know he had.

“Well, thrown. Someone t-boned me and, you know, no seatbelts plus a good sideways smash and,” he makes a sailing motion with his hand.

Parrish winces. “Come on in the back and let’s get you patched up.”

“I don’t have to take my clothes off this time, do I?” Stiles wonders as they walk back to the same room Parrish had him in last week.

With a chuckle, the man says, “Actually…”

“I find it a little odd that I’ve been more naked with you than on the porn set I work on,” Stiles responds, drawing out a genuine laugh.

Once in the room, he does as instructed and tries to fight back a grimace as he pulls his shirt over his head and sits down for inspection. “Well, your burn looks better,” Parrish comments, nodding in approval before moving probing his left shoulder. “Hit this side?”

“Landed, yeah.”

Walking around behind him, Parrish’s fingers are light but not enough to keep Stiles from flinching a few times. “Sorry. Just trying to make sure you didn’t break anything.”

“Pretty sure I would know if I broke something,” Stiles huffs.

“Not necessarily,” Parrish supplies before gripping Stiles’ elbow. “I’m going to move your arm. Let me know if it hurts.”

It hurts, but Parrish assures him it’s not in an agonizing way that indicates he broke his shoulder, but instead in a sharp throbbing way that signifies that he’s going to have some heavy bruising and not want to try to carry anything heavy for a little while. “Mainly because you might end up dropping it, and if it’s heavy, it’s probably beyond your paycheck to go dropping it.”

Stiles chuckles. “Good tip. Can I get a doctor’s note for that?”

“Sure thing.” A light pat on his good shoulder. “Go ahead and put your shirt on, I’ll write it up at the front.”

When he gets back to the front desk Parrish has the note in question, a bottle of Advil, and a smile. “Really, next time, just stop by, no injuries,” he says as he hands over the note and painkillers.

Pocketing both, Stiles grins. “No promises. Can’t account for other people’s driving after all.”

“Right,” Parrish sighs, continuing with, “Well, I’ll cross my fingers then. You’re free to go,” and if Erica hadn’t told him Parrish was straight, he’d be sure the guy is flirting with him.

It takes longer getting back to the office than Stiles had thought because he’s an idiot and has to walk all the way back to his cart, just to find Derek’s salad splayed all over the street like some kind of vegetarian road kill. For a moment he considers going back without the salad, thinks better of it, and loops back around the lot to grab another one. By the time he’s pushing through the doors it’s been a full two hours and Sarah’s eyes are growing wider by the second as he approaches.

“Where have you _been_?” she asks in a fierce whisper

Stiles is halfway to asking her if it would be safer if he just left when Derek’s voice calls through the hall. “Where the hell have you been Stiles?”

Sarah winces and Stiles rolls his eyes as he heads back to Derek’s office. “Keep your boxers on, I’m here now.” When he rounds the corner Derek is standing in the doorway of his office looking very much like a man who has been denied his lunch and has long since become cranky and in need of a binkie and a nap. “What the-”

“I have a note,” Stiles interrupts.

In what is becoming a very familiar expression, Derek raises a single eyebrow in question and waits as Stiles fishes said note out of his back pocket and hands it over along with the salad. “From Parrish.”

“Parrish,” Derek repeats, snatching the note and ignoring the salad. “Due to a vehicular accident… no heavy lifting… What the _hell_ happened?” The eyebrow is down, and an expression that may well be concern is pulling at the edges of Derek’s face. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. It was a stupid golf cart accident,” Stiles supplies. “Come on, I got you a new salad and everything.” This time Derek accepts the salad.

“What happened to the other one?” he wonders softly, looking through the top of the bag at the fresh meal.

“Well, it’s all over the road for one. I’m sure there’s gravel and stuff in it, maybe some bird poo,” Stiles fills in, just to be difficult, because that’s the only way he can deal with the man in front of him, who is groomed and wearing the kind of clothes that Stiles hopes his future mate, if they are to be male, will look as dashing in as Derek does.

Despite the previous concern, Derek gives him a look that tells him to cut it out. Then asks, “Are you alright?” more genuinely than Stiles’ conflicted mind-heart-body can deal with.

“Fine. Just some bruising on my back,” he gives, as though compelled, because there’s no legitimate reason to tell Derek anything other than the basic general picture.

“Parrish say that?”

Feeling suddenly tired and seeing the light on the phone blinking the silent shout of missed messages, Stiles rounds his desk and takes a seat, wincing as he leans back without thinking. “Yeah. Took a good look. Nothing broken. I’m good to work. Just-”

“No heavy lifting,” Derek supplies.

Stiles nods. “Yeah, exactly,” and reaches for the phone, pausing before picking it up. “Anything else you need?”

Derek shakes his head. “No. Thanks,” and retreats into his office.

           

The next day Derek’s back on set and Stiles enters the office with the solidified knowledge that he has another two weeks to adjust to the idea that Derek in normal clothes, in nice normal clothes, in professional clothes, will be a constant _thing_ in his life for however many months it is until Laura is finished and Derek can go back to being naked, which just… Alright, he knows that’s kind of twisted and backward, but he’s already desensitized himself to Naked Derek.

Derek’s presence isn’t completely gone however, because there are a number of bags on Stiles’ desk when he walks in and he sure as hell didn’t put them there. Bags that say things like Saks Fifth Avenue and Barneys and Stiles looks around for a note regarding what he’s supposed to do with them but doesn’t find anything. Heaving a sigh, he packs the bags onto a golf cart and drives, cautiously, to find Cynthia in the _Whoredrobe_.

“What? No, those aren’t mine. They’re for you.”

Stiles blinks at the woman, it’s about all the response his brain can muster up because he’s sure it, or his ears, are broken. Though he does finally manage a, “What?”

“For you, darling. He was particular about a few things, but the rest were my decision. Did you look yet?”

Numb, he shakes his head.

“Very fetching if I do say so myself. You’ll look delightful.”

“For me,” he repeats, because he’s clearly having an aneurism if Derek King Of Porn and Ass Hole No Pun Intended Hale is buying him clothing. He already has clothing. Plenty of it. Perfectly good clothing. He’s wearing it right now.

“Good Lord. You know I have a job to do. Yes. For you. If you have questions, go ask Derek.”

He does just that. Except he can’t, because when he arrives on set the red filming light is on and so he has to sit outside in the golf cart like an idiot for fifteen minutes until it beeps off and he can scramble off and storm into the dark studio. Somewhere deep in his gut it feels validating to be the one corning upon a somewhat startled looking Derek in one of the narrow dark corners. “What the hell?”

Derek’s eyebrow goes up and Stiles fights the urge to reach up and shove it back into place. “What ‘what the hell’?”

“You bought me clothes?”

If Derek is attempting to hide his pleasure, he’s doing a shit job at it, which means he isn’t. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you look better in them.” Stiles opens his mouth and Derek continues right over him, “And you’re my assistant, and you’ll wear what I want you to wear or you can go find another job.”

Stiles glares. “Laura wouldn’t dare fire me.”

“Laura’s also not the one who can make your life a living hell on a daily basis.”

Fingers curling into fists, Stiles opens his mouth, shuts it, opens and shuts it a few more times with increasing rage at the open smirk pulling Derek’s lips into an inappropriately sultry form. “No more clothes,” he says finally.

“No promises,” Derek tells his retreating back, and Stiles growls loud enough to draw more than a few glances as he storms back out.

“Jesus, I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”

“Awww.”

“No,” Stiles snaps, glaring at Erica and trying his best to ignore Boyd’s laughter. “Not ‘aww,’ unless that is an ‘aww’ in sympathy for whatever horror movie my life has turned in to.”

Erica chortles. “Horror movie?”

“I’m afraid for you if you think _this_ is a horror movie,” Boyd adds, unhelpful as ever.

Melting into his chair, Stiles pokes the last few bites of his burger with a fry. “It might as well be Saw 8.”

“Oh God. And they call me dramatic,” Erica sighs, poking at his leg with her bare foot. “He gave you a new wardrobe. Come on, that’s probably the nicest thing Derek’s done for anybody in the history of his existence.”

“And let’s be honest, you could use it.”

A sharp glare doesn’t do anything to whither their grins. “I’m an adult. He’s playing _dress up_ with me.”

“He’s making sure you don’t embarrass him,” Boyd counters bluntly, and it only hurts a little bit, because he’s probably right. Even Stiles can see how his ceiling Cthulhu and drunken cloud vomiting rainbows shirts are more suited for a day on set versus a day of being the barrier between the world and Derek I Actually Own A Company When I’m Not Screwing On Screen Hale.

“Not to mention he, like the rest of us, probably thinks you look good enough to just unzip and fuck when you wear that waistcoat,” Erica chirps.

With an agonized groan, Stiles lets his head fall onto the table. It might be time to reconsider his life choices.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://rlnerdgirl.tumblr.com/) for quick and easy updates on what I'm writing!


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